High Tide
by bluRaaven
Summary: An ancient threat has arisen in the south and even as the oncoming darkness threatens to engulf Skyrim, fate will unite two strangers. One man who seeks a purpose in life, while the other strives to reclaim his lost honor. Maybe, at the turn of the tide, they will find together what they were looking for in vain on their own. Rated M to be safe.
1. Chapter 1

**Regrettably, I don't own Skyrim. Bethesda does.**

To all my readers: welcome! 

21.08.2013: As you can see there's been a shight change; I've moved the Introduction to BtS, since this is actually the second installment of a series I have taken to calling the 'Blacktyde Chronicles'.

If you are new here,I advise you to start at the beginning and read my other story, 'Before the Storm' first; things might get confusing otherwise.

As always, thank you for reading and enjoy the adventure!

WARNING: If you have any trouble with the following topics: graphic violence, homosexuality, sex in general, coarse language, or other-worldly religion, please refrain from reading this fanfic.

Finally, I should be writing Argis's, but nay, all those 's' make for awkward reading (and writing). I hope you don't mind. The picture is a screenshot of the two main characters.

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It started with a knock. One hesitant at first, and then another. When nobody answered, it turned into a light rapping before whoever was outside got frustrated enough to firmly thump on the front door. Muffled through the solid stone walls of his home the noise made its way into Argis' dreams.

_The Nord warrior tensed, ready to jump aside and avoid collision with the group of galloping riders before they bore down upon him, trampling him to death. He could hear the hagraven's wild shrieks and gleeful cackles as she brandished a goat's leg, the roasting spit still attached. But the horses ran past, the beat of their hooves rapidly dwindling in the distance. "Watch out for the raven", Hákan said, as he raised his axe high above his head and brought it down with a dull thud upon the chopping block. It was a clean blow, decapitating the hagraven, whose head rolled over, blinked and grinned up at Argis. _

Argis startled awake with a sharp intake of breath, not from the gruesome scene of his dream, for blood and death had lost their horror long ago - but upon seeing the ghost of a man now four years dead. It was then that he realized somebody was at the door and judging by the sound, ready to tear it off its hinges. With a grunt and a muttered curse at the incessant pounding, Argis rose, slipped into a pair of breeches and a shirt from the day before and shuffled down the hallway to answer the door. It was too early for Brigge to call on him, their unit would not be ready for another offensive strike until Fredas, which was, Argis groggily remembered, the day after tomorrow. Besides, the commander was not an early riser. In fact, it would require a major case of emergency to get him out of bed before dawn. And the sun had not yet risen, of that he was sure. Though the perpetual gloom of Vlindrel Hall gave no clue as to the time, Argis had learned to trust his own inner clock a long time ago.

At the door he was greeted by a blast of cold, fresh air and the face of a grumpy courier. The man's hand was raised, being interrupted mid-knock and he looked tired and pissed off. Before Argis had a chance to ask what was so important it couldn't wait until a decent hour, the messenger spoke.

"Are you Argis?" the man enquired. "The one they call 'the Bulwark'?"

"Yeah", Argis replied, his voice still rough from sleep and saw the courtier give a curt nod, as if his answer had been expected. It was his bloody home, so whom had the man expected? Argis cleared his throat and wanted to speak, but was cut off brusquely.

"The Jarl demands your immediate attendance."

Argis did not try to hide his astonishment. "What in blazes for?"

In response, he received a raised eyebrow and a biting retort. "How am I supposed to know? Jarl Igmund does not see fit to share counsel with me." The courier gave Arigs' rumpled appearance a disgusted once-over and continued "I trust you know the way to the keep. I have other affairs to attend to." And without a word of parting the man turned on his heels and left.

Argis was still trying to understand what just had happened when an icy gust drove him back into the warm interior of his home. Closing the door behind him he briefly debated returning to the cosy softness of his bed and sleep's welcoming embrace. Argis winced at the sudden pain in his chest and he felt a deep yearning sadness as he remembered the man in his dream. Most days he did not think about Hákan at all and sometimes...well, sometimes he needed to get his ass moving because duty was calling.

Uttering another oath the warrior snapped out of his gloomy thoughts and focused on the task at hand, which was making himself respectable. Wondering what Markarth's ruler wanted from him at the very butt creak of dawn Argis rummaged about his wardrobe in search of clean clothes – where _had_ all his clothes gone? He finished dressing and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. Feeling stubble on his face he frowned. This wouldn't do. Quickly, he splashed his face with cold water, shaved, and donned his armour – now _that_ he could do anytime, awake or half-asleep and anywhere in daylight as easily as in total darkness. His fingers moved deftly, swiftly tying buckles and leather stripes. There was little Argis could do for his hair on such short notice. When he had returned yesterday evening, he had been too tired to do more than cursory scrub himself down with a wet towel before he hit the pillow. He had spent the last week scouting the wilds, keeping track of their enemy. He might still look like, though at least he no longer smelled like the local wildlife. So he simply ran a comb through the mess before tying his blonde hair into a ponytail. It would have to suffice. After casting his bed one last longing glance Argis left his home for the Understone Keep.

It had been four years since Argis had last spoken to Jarl Igmund. He pondered the reason for his summoning as he made his way through the silent streets of Markarth. Except for the occasional torch which lighted the alleys in the wealthier districts, the city was dark and Argis met no one, except for a miserable guard on duty whom he greeted with a nod. To the far east, over Markarth's walls he could make out the pale, rosy glow of dawn. The autumn air was chilly, bitter cold most people would say, but the cold did not bother Argis. He was a true Nord and he delighted in the way his breath misted over. It helped him clear his head and wash the last traces of sleep from his mind as he made his way up and down a multitude of stairways.

At the gates the guards waved him through with barely a glance, undoubtedly they had their orders and he was well known. Argis ascended the last flight of steps which led up to the Mournful Throne. Jarl Igmund had not aged well these past years. He appeared exhausted and sat slumped in the oversized seat of his throne. An old, dented shield lay across his knees. There were dark rings under his eyes and his attire was dishevelled, making Argis wonder whether he had gotten any sleep at all.

He came to a halt in front of Markarth's ruler and saluted him, noting the way Faleen's eyes tracked his every movement. The Redguard woman was the Jarl's housecarl, there to protect her sovereign –with her life if necessary. It was good to look at her and not feel the burning wave of resentment and failure. It had taken a long time, but Argis had finally overcome his bitterness.

"You summoned me, my Jarl", the warrior stated.

"Ah! Yes, yes it is good you have finally arrived. I trust everything went well on your mission?"

Argis hid his frown. If the Jarl wanted to discuss the soldiers' progress he could have simply awaited Brigge's report. That was not why he was here. Still, he replied politely, "It has, Jarl. Rolfrik, Thurek and me we finally managed to track the Forsworn down. They made camp a few miles from the Karthspire, down by the Laskjö Falls at Gudrun's Eye. A briarheart is with them, as well as a hagraven. We haven't caught sight of her, but we are fairly certain she is there. Commander Brigge is ready to launch an attack on Fredas. The recruits are eager for their first battle, they have trained hard." Argis smiled proudly. He had had an essential part in training Markarth's young warriors.

The Jarl nodded and murmured his assent, though Argis could tell he wasn't really listening. He waited in silence while Jarl Igmund stared off into space.

All of a sudden the Jarl spoke up, shaking himself out of his reverie with a small jerk of his head. "I am sure you are curious as to the reason why I called for you."

"I am at your command, my Jarl", Argis intoned formally.

He saw a small smile playing across the Jarl's mouth at his words. "Yes. You are. But as you have been out of the city these last weeks, allow me to bring you up to date. There have been several incidents with the Forsworn lately. They grow bold, attacking along the main routes in broad daylight. But instead of fighting us, whenever they see a contingent of our soldiers, they slink away like the cowardly goats they are." The Jarl's hand hit the armrest of his throne to underline his words; his voice rose in anger.

The Forsworn were the Reaches' natives, but the Nord had driven them out of their homeland over a thousand years ago. Or rather, they had tried to drive them out. Ever since the two people had been at war. But the Forsworn had survived, unforgiving, and bent upon reclaiming what they believed to be rightfully theirs, which included the city of Markarth and every other settlement in the Reach. Eighteen years ago they had almost succeeded. The Forsworn had gained control over Markarth and had it not been for Ulfric Stormcloak and his campaign, they might have retained control over the city.

"We haven't been able to engage them in direct combat, but thankfully, there are always adventurers ready to risk their heads in the name of glory."

Argis winced at the words, but the Jarl resumed – whether uncaring or not noticing, the warrior could not tell.

"You may have heard the rumours. One of them actually managed to pique my interest. To make a long story short, I decided to test his mettle and sent him on a – quest..." At this point the Jarl petted the shield.

Argis still had no idea where this was going and, more importantly, what it had to do with him, but he held his tongue and feigned interest. He had, in fact heard rumours about a group of adventurers taking on a whole camp of the Forsworn, but he had not been back long enough to catch up on the gossip. He might have been doing just that, the Nine knew soldiers loved to gossip as much as milkmaids. As fate would have it, here he was listening to the ramblings of his Jarl. Argis briefly wondered whether it was some disease the nobility was afflicted with, that they could not simply _say_ what they wanted.

"_Spit it out and be done with it"_, as Hákan used to say. _"Better than chewin' on somethin' when ya don't like the taste". _With a start, Argis realized his attention had been wavering. Thankfully, the Jarl did not notice.

"...to retrieve this very shield. It has been an heirloom of my family, passed down from father to son for many generations. Hrolfdir, my father gave it to me, but alas! When Markarth was occupied by these Forsworn...", he halted briefly, searching for the right word "...vermin...the shield was deemed lost. And now it has been reclaimed again!"

Argis watched the Jarl wearily as the man lovingly stroked what Argis could only call an old piece of junk metal. He distrusted the glint in the other man's eyes.

"And that is why for his dedication and bravery I have chosen to honour said adventurer with the title of Thane of Markarth." Jarl Igmund stopped, looked into Argis' one good eye and smiled. "And you, Argis, I appoint as his housecarl."

In the ensuing silence Argis could hear the blood roaring in his ears. Stunned, he had gone stock-still, ground his teeth and resisted the urge to ask whether this was a joke, because if so, it wasn't bloody funny.

Looking down upon the face of Markarth's prized warrior, now flushed red – with anger, no doubt – Jarl Igmund almost chuckled, feeling a slight pang of sympathy for the man. Adventurers really were the worst kind. And with Argis' past it was no wonder the warrior took this as an insult. Schooling his features the Jarl continued in a sympathetic voice.

"I called for you at this hour, because I thought you would appreciate having as much time as possible before he arrived. His swift advance to Thane was not entirely my decision. I would rather not give a stranger this much power, but he has served Markarth faithfully, so far."

Argis sighed, swallowing his anger. The Jarl was encumbered by politics; he might not have had much of a choice. As he had said, strangers were not welcome in Markarth. You never knew if one wasn't a spy for the Forsworn or the Thalmor. Which made Argis –what? His Thane's watchdog? Still, the Jarl had done all right by him in the past, so he was willing to trust him. In spite of that he had to clear his throat twice, before asking hoarsely "When will he arrive, my Jarl?"

"Today afternoon, at the earliest. After court, maybe. The purchase agreement of Vlindrel Hall was signed yesterday; I have already handed over the keys."

Upon hearing these words, Argis felt his blood run cold. "What about our agreement?", he burst out, in an unusual breach of his professional demeanour.

Jarl Igmund waved a hand, appeasing the distressed Nord. "It still stands, of course, and will continue to do so, don't you worry. And now, I must return to matters of state."

Knowing he was being dismissed, Argis saluted once more, before turning to leave. He had almost reached the bottom of the stairs, when he heard Jarl Igmund speak up again.

"And Argis – do not disappoint me this time."

"I will not, my Jarl", the warrior responded, but whether the Jarl had heard him, he did not know. He held his composure until he was safely back home, where he finally allowed himself to panic. With a litany of curses he kicked a bucket across the living room, before collapsing against the door of his house. Still swearing, he ran his hands over his face and through his hair in a nervous gesture. He wished he had never gotten out of bed.

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**AN:** I´m trying to give the characters different "voices", so that they can be recognized, even without their names being mentioned. I'm not sure I'll succeed, though.


	2. Chapter 2

to: floridayankee and Sarojz: I have never shown my stories to anybody before, so you can imagine how nervous I was when I posted the chapter. You are my first reviewers and your comments were very encouraging; and for that I want to thank you.

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Argis had been born and raised in the Reach, in a small village two days ride from Markarth. When he was younger, his family sometimes travelled to the city, for their goods sold better there. They lived on Gundar's heim, a farm in a small, secluded community most simply referred to as the 'Cove'. His father, brothers and Argis himself tended to the fields, they chopped wood and fished while his mother and sisters weaved, knitted and did embroidery. Anything to get by. His parents had seven hungry mouths to feed, but somehow they scratched out a living. The villagers were charitable folk, always willing to help. Whenever the crops of a farm failed, those who had plenty would aid those in need. Work was hard, but life was predictable and uneventful. Until the war broke out.

Well, the war didn't just break out – it had always been there, for over a thousand years Nord and Forsworn waged a hard battle over the dominion of the Reach, but eighteen years ago the Forsworn clans had allied, joining into a single army which marched upon Markarth, unrelenting and unstoppable. Markarth fell under the combined forces of the assailants and from there the Forsworn pushed onwards, expanding their rule. Trouble reached the Cove shortly after First Planting, when winter released its icy hold over the country.

Before, the wildlings had been stories the villagers told children to scare them into obedience. Suddenly though, they found the stories had come to live and become a nightmare. Refugees flooded their little town, recounting tales of horror. The Forsworn had conquered Markarth. Those who lost their homes and all their possessions were still counted among the lucky, because they had escaped with their lives. Starving, bands of forlorn refugees became a danger of their own. Not only the Forsworn were roaming the countryside, pillaging and murdering as they went. Only though sheer, dumb luck, did the Cove not stand in their way. But what little food the townsfolk could spare for the desperate, would not last. Their charities were not enough. Soon, they had to turn people away. Argis had watched his father close the door in the face of a crying woman, who begged for scraps for her hungry child. When he turned around, Argis had seen the unshed tears glistening in his father's eyes. It was not the Nord way to turn away from those in need and Gundar was Nord through and through. But what was he to do? His own children had to eat.

That night Argis had snuck out, in search for the woman, his dinner wrapped in a cloth he hid under his woollen coat. He found her in the shelter of their village's small chapel, huddled together with a dirty girl that could not have been older than six. When she heard him approach, the woman startled and looked up at him with trepidation, although Argis could make out the underlying spark of curiosity and subdued hope that shone in her eyes. Argis might have been standing in his town's own chapel, yet he felt oddly out of place. Nervously, he shuffled his feet, scrapping his toes against the floor.

"I...erm", he coughed before continuing "I brought you something." Avoiding the woman's eyes he reached inside his coat and pulled out the food, stretching his hand out towards the refugee.

"Oh", the woman gasped softly.

"It's not much, I know and...", he risked a look at his offering; bread and some cheese, "...and it got squished", he added, embarrassed and afraid he just made a fool out of himself.

His worries were quenched, however, when he saw the woman smiling up at him.

"Thank you", she said softly and there was a depth of emotion in her voice and eyes that put Argis to shame. It was not fair that she should show such gratitude, for in a couple of hours she would go hungry again, whilst he would return to his family, his home with a warm kitchen and a soft bed. While Argis pondered this silently, the woman shook awake the girl, who squealed with delight at the food and began stuffing chunks of bread into her mouth, swallowing them whole.

"Not so fast, or you will get sick with bellyache", the woman reprimanded her gently, before turning to her benefactor. "Please, sit. I am Agata, and this is Rosa." The girl looked up when she heard her name, but did not stop eating. "And to whom do we owe such kindness?"

"I am Argis, Gundarsson", Argis replied, lowering himself, so that he leaned against one of the wooden benches. "I live here." He shrugged, pulling his coat around himself. Not willing to let the silence set in, he added "It was the least I could do."

"It was more than anybody else did", Agata replied, stroking Rosa's hair, who had stopped eating and had laid back down and Argis did not miss the bitter edge that had crept into her voice. After some quiet contemplation, Agata sighed "Not that I can fault them." She turned her gaze back on Argis. "Nobody seems to have anything left."

To this Argis nodded his head. "Not after winter, they don't."

Skyrim's long winters were hard on the farmers. It meant much of the sowing and harvesting had to be done in a very short time. Those weeks were excruciating, their entire family working from sunup till sunset. By the time Harvest's End arrived, everybody was looking forward to the respite that autumn would bring. Yet in its own way, winter was worse than those days they spent toiling in the summer heat. Because by then all they could do was wait and hope they had gathered enough food, fodder and firewood. When the snow engulfed the entire countryside in a white blanket and the skies turned the colour of tarnished iron they would often sit around the dining table, the fire crackling merrily, illuminating the dim interior of their home. They would talk, the moments of shared closeness almost intimate, as they tried to keep the cold and dismal thoughts at bay with laughter and song. And beneath it all, at times so thick it was almost tangible, the undercurrent of dread was forever present.

"We tried helping them, you know? When people first came and asked for our aid, we did. But they never stopped coming." It was no excuse, Argis knew. Still, he wanted to speak in defence of the villagers who were good people, people he had grown up with. He doubted it gave the woman next to him any solace knowing that others had received the help she herself was in such desperate need of.

"Where are you going?", he found himself asking after a little while, clumsily trying to change the topic.

"I have a cousin a couple of miles south of Karthwarsten. She...", at this point Agata's voice faltered for a moment, before she continued. "She will take us in", she said trying to sound convincingly, but the smile she gave Argis wavered precariously.

"That's a long way to go", was the only answer that came to his mind.

"We have already made one third of the way", Agata answered, determination, pride and exhaustion marking her words.

Hearing those words, Argis felt excitement bubble up in him. "You're not from Markarth, then!", he exclaimed, eager to hear about the far dwellings of the Reach.

His eagerness showed and Agata chuckled. Such a sweet boy, who had shown more compassion than the majority of people she came across. She had little doubt that the food he has brought her had been his own meal. Although it was painful to think about her home, she could not blame him for asking. And in a way it felt good, cleansing, to have somebody to talk to, somebody who listed to her and in whose eyes she could detect no judgement, just curiosity and sympathy.

"No, I am not from Markarth. My home was Irisberg,...", she began, the memories now bittersweet. She told him about her own village, about how they had been warned against the Forsworn attack and how she and her daughter had fled, towards Markarth, where they thought they would be kept safe by its strong walls. It was a mistake that had almost become fatal. So they fled once more, turning north where Agata hoped to find shelter with her distant family.

Soon their talk started flowing, becoming less forced after a rather bumpy start and both were glad, if somewhat tense, flinching when their voices resounded too loudly in the empty stillness of the chapel. It never quite became companionable, the topic too distressing to let either relax wholly. Argis did not know how long he stayed, not willing to leave and when the time came when he had to depart, he felt himself being pulled into an impromptu hug.

"Thank you, again."

Argis nodded. "Good luck. Stay safe."

"You too." Agata replied, patting his cheek in a gesture so reminiscent of his own mother, that Argis almost did a double take. "But do not worry, this plight cannot last much longer. Not with Ulfric on the way."

It was she who had first told Argis of a rumour, namely that Ulfric Stormcloak was assembling an army, taking on any volunteers and, when he finally had the numbers, he would free them of the Forsworn menace. By doing so she had unknowingly kindled a spark, one that years later would be fanned to a roaring blaze. Little did Argis know back then what the future had store for him. Waving one last goodbye, he walked out of the chapel and slowly made his way back home. What the refugee woman had said, struck a chord deep within the boy and that very night a plan began to form in the back of his mind.

Argis was pulled out of his thoughts when he arrived at a familiar door, his feet having carried him here seemingly of their own. Now came the hard part. The front door creaked, but it was still better than the back door, because that was where they kept some livestock. And alarmed pigs made for surprisingly good watchdogs. He thought he had been careful when he snuck out, avoiding his sleeping siblings and all the loose floorboards in the main room. Carefully, he eased the door open and breathed out a sigh of relief when he was greeted with silence, signifying that everybody was sound asleep. Just as he was making his way past the hearth, where the fire had burned low and the coals were glowing a dark red, his father's deep voice made him jump.

"Where have you been, son?"

The words were accompanied by a few muffled snickers from above and Argis did not need to look up to know that he had an audience.

"I", he considered saying that he felt ill and went outside to breathe some fresh air, but dropped the idea of lying almost as soon as it came to his mind. He had been raised to know better.

"I was at the chapel", he admitted finally.

Gundar nodded, he had suspected as much. "I did not know brother Jansen offered his services at such a late hour", he replied wryly.

"I went to find the refugee woman. The one with the girl, who was at our door earlier. I went to give them some food", the confession bubbled out of him. Argis wondered if his father was mad enough to strike him. He knew he should not have gone behind his family's back, but the only food he had taken was his own. His heart sank when his father spoke.

"So you were not just sneaking around, but willing to let your own family hunger?"

"It was just my share, I didn't take from anyone else, I swear! I can go hungry for one day. They had nothing!", Argis cried, trying to make his father _understand_. He had made his decision and he would stand by and suffer the consequences if he had to. What he did not know, was that his father understood very well and was testing his son's resolve. After a while Gundar let the stern mask fall away and firmly grasped his son's shoulder.

"I'm proud of you, son. Today you acted as any true Nord should. You have a good heart. Don't lose it. Sometimes life can be harsher than the coldest winter." And after ruffling Argis' hair, Gundar pulled his son into a hug, dispelling the last doubts about any ill will. "Now, up you go you'll have an early start tomorrow. You gave your mother quite a scare; you'll better help her around the house."

"Yes, papa", Argis said, flashing his father a smile, before he made his way to the ladder, climbing up to the loft, where all the brothers slept. Their home had two rooms, a living room that included a kitchen and a small pen for animals and a tiny chamber, where their parents could sleep in privacy. The boys had pallets on the right part of the loft, the left was for supplies. Argis' two sisters slept around the kitchen table, on the benches. The backrests could be rotated to the front, so that the benches would serve as beds.

When Argis reached the top, he found five pairs of eyes trailed on him. So much for stealthy sneaking. "All right, who tattled?", Argis asked frowning and trying to sound tough.

"Svenja did. She saw you and went running to mother", one of the twins piped up. Argis thought it was Niels, but there was no way to tell in the darkness. Svenja was the youngest of the siblings, her sister Katla the eldest. Argis really couldn't blame his baby sister. At five years of age she was just a child.

"Father was furious when you left." Argis heard Olav's voice from the back. Olav was second eldest. For some reason he and Argis did not get along very well.

"Well he wasn't when I came back.", Argis answered.

"Stop it, both of you!", Eric, ever the peacemaker, threw in. "Or I'll knock your heads together." He could do it too, he was not only built like a bull, but also had a temper like one. Before, he had been Argis' staunch protector against his elder brother, a service that Argis, who was starting to outgrow them both, was no longer in any need of. But keeping his idiot brothers from each other's throats was a task that Eric had taken up upon himself.

Before their talk could turn into a full argument a new voice joined in. "What did she say?" This was Katla speaking.

Argis, who had been steeling himself for a quarrel, did not pay her much attention. "Who?"

"The refugee", silly. He could practically hear his sister's smile.

Argis swallowed. "She said it's bad, and it's not just Markarth. The Forsworn are roaming around, and considering we're just four days walk away, we have been darn lucky so far." The room had grown so quiet one could hear a pin drop.

Olav broke the silence first "I don't understand why the Jarl lets them roam around. Why don't the soldiers stop them?"

Argis knew the answer. "They are waiting for Ulfric. He is building an army and when he has one big enough, he will lay siege to Markarth."

Everybody's eyes had grown wide. "So there's gonna be war?" Eric's voice was hushed.

Argis nodded. "Yes." He took a deep breath, his heart hammering wildly in his chest. "And I will sign up."

His statement was met with a chorus of gasps.

"What?" Katla sounded winded.

Eric was more direct. "Are you nuts?!"

Olav, as always had something to contribute. "You're not old enough."

"I am old enough and soon I'll be taller than you are", Argis snapped.

"You don't even have a girlfriend." It was one of Olav's favourite arguments why he was so much more grown up than his brothers.

"Neither do you."

"But I had one", Olav said haughtily.

"Yes, until you got sick on her", Argis retorted.

"You bloody...".

The rest of what either of them might have said was drowned out in a chorus of shrill laughter. The twins had not been there the day Olav had drunk and danced too much, but the tale of how he had gained and lost a girl in one night was one of their favourites.

The two brothers kept glaring at each other, while Katla rolled her eyes. She was betrothed and did she have to mention it every chance she got? No.

Olav was distracted by the giggling boys. "You little blighters", he hissed at them, but it was harmless banter. Olav _adored_ the twins. Everybody did, through what Mikael and Niels had done to deserve such admiration, nobody knew. Mostly they just tried to get everybody to confuse them and then they would make that person feel guilty about it. Those rascals.

Katla turned her attention back to her brother. "Argis", she began haltingly "are you sure? Do you even know what you are talking about?"

For once in his life he was absolutely sure. Argis looked up and spoke. "And what will we do when the Forsworn get here? When Ulfric fails to defeat them because he did not have enough men, who's gonna keep us safe? "

He stood up, stepping out of their circle and made his way towards his pallet.

A heavy silence engulfed the room. Katla did not doubt that they were all thinking about how easily the refugees' fate could have been their own. She looked over to where she knew Argis slept, even though she could not make out much in the darkness. Her younger brother was tall and stubborn, but he was also shy and awkward and he had no experience whatsoever in fighting, none of them did. She just could not picture him holding a sword instead of a pitchfork, let alone actually hurting anyone.

Yet, never before had he sounded so very sure about something. Argis would do what he believed to be right, the incident with the refugee woman had shown as much.

Katla did not sleep that night, choosing to watch over her sleeping family instead, contemplating Argis' words and trying to shake the feeling of impending doom.

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**AN:** Huh, the scene with the refugee woman was really difficult to write. Both Argis and Agata know that in the end it might not make a difference either way. Above all else, I wanted their talk to feel _awkward. _And to give you a glimpse of Gundar's home, before we move onto the military encampment.

The siblings' ages: Katla is 21, Olav 20, Erik 21, Argis 16, Mikael and Niels 13, Svenja 5. Their mother's name is Ivanna.

So, I just invented that farms, houses, etc are called after the person who runs them. Heim means 'home' in German. I meddled with the timeline, too. Let's just say that the Forsworn Uprising happened 18 years ago, not 27.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you all for reading.

* * *

When next morning Argis announced his decision, the biggest argument that Gundar's heim had ever witnessed, ensued. Disagreements between family members were inevitable, considering they were nine people living in one house. Therefore, Gundar spent every other day trying to sort out some squabble or another. Because he believed in fairness he first tried to talk some sense into Argis, but when his son would not be swayed by any reasoning, their argument went round and round, until Gundar had the feeling that he was talking to a water wheel. He felt Argis' resolve strengthen and it was fear of losing his son that finally made him flat out refuse Argis' request to enlist with the army.

"You're not going anywhere! There's nothing for you out there, no glory, no honour, nothing."

"There's precious little for me here, but cabbages and potatoes", Argis threw in, deliberately goading his father on. He felt bad about it, but he would not give any ground. Not this time.

"WHAT ABOUT YOUR FAMILY?!", Gundar roared, angry that his son would dismiss them and their livelihood so quickly.

"I'M DOING THIS TO PROTECT MY FAMILY!", Argis yelled right back at him, matching his father's anger. Never before had a dispute gotten this much out of hand. In fact, it was the first time any of Gundar's children had raised their voice in such a way.

In the following silence Olav's words cracked like a whip. "He's right."

Ivanna, who had been listening to her husband and son arguing, looked up in shock "Olav, surely you do not agree?

"No. He is right", Olav insisted. "We are Nord. We should protect our homes, not cower in fear and hope we might be spared. Because we might not be."

Gundar closed his eyes to ward off the influx of despair. He stood up and bitterly muttered "Divines, deliver me from the simple-heartedness of youth" and, throwing his hands up, he left the room. In retrospect he knew that he should not have lost his temper, that he should have whittled away Argis' reasons and that a negative response would only make his stubborn son dig his heels in harder. But he could not consent to an undertaking that might be the death of his beloved children. So he did what any responsible father would and sought counsel. He found Jansen behind the chapel, tending to the beds of herbs and vigorously pulling weeds.

Upon hearing his approach the other man looked up from his work. "My friend", he began furrowing his brows when he beheld Gundar's distressed expression. "You look like something is troubling you greatly."

Gundar nodded. Assuming that he would have enough time to explain himself later he said quietly "I would like to call for the town's circle to meet."

When she saw her husband storm off, Ivanna made her way over to where Argis sat dejected at the kitchen table, head buried in his arms. His siblings had legged it the moment the shouting had started. All except for Olav, that was and even though his elder brother had agreed with him, which was a rare occurrence, he felt no particular inclination to talk to him. He did not stir when somebody settled next to him, but when he felt a gentle hand stroking his hair he looked up warily.

Ivanna pulled back and mustered her son with tender, loving eyes. She knew why her husband had reacted so badly, for the same dread, that of losing a child, also lingered in her heart. Such were the burdens a mother had to bear. Instead of demanding an explanation she asked just one question. "Why?"

Argis closed his eyes for one moment, unknowingly mirroring his father and thought about the best way to phrase his answer. "For you.", he began. "All of you. For Svenja, for Niels and for Mikael. And for you, mum, and for father, so that you'll never have to go through what the refugees did. So that you'll be safe."

"You could die", she said softly.

"I know." Argis answered her just as quietly. "But at least I have a choice."

His mother nodded.

"So you will not stop me?" Argis sounded incredulous.

"Son, I would pick up a sword myself and face down the entire Forsworn horde to stop you. But that choice might not be mine to make." Patting Argis on the shoulder she got up and calmly, but firmly told him "Up, now. There's work to be done and I will not have you moping around." Behind her she heard an unhappy moan and the scrape of a wooden chair on the floor.

xxxx

The meeting began in the afternoon, when the other members of the circle returned from their work in the fields. The villagers had formed the circle as a means of discussing problems and making decisions that concerned their entire community. Gundar was hardly surprised when he found out that he was not the only one facing the particular problem that brought him here. As it turned out, plenty of sons and daughters had already expressed their desire to join Ulfric's cause. Now their parents argued back and forth, debating whether they should comply with their plans. Gundar listened, feeling as if the solid ground beneath his feet had began to tilt as he sat there; until he could stand it no longer.

"I don't care if they hate me until the end of their days, if I can prevent them from going to war, then I will!", Gundar spoke up, interrupting everybody else.

"And how do you intend to do that?", the somebody shouted out, the miller most likely.

Gundar swallowed. He knew they would ask this particular question and he had thought long and hard. What he came up with hardly made him happy, but it was the only way. "I will join in their stead."

It looked as if this day was meant to be filled with strife and discord, because as soon as he uttered those words, their orderly meeting broke up, when people started shouting agitatedly. Quite some time passed before things quieted down and Jensen, their elected leader, got everybody to sit down.

"I doubt there is anyone here amongst us who had not already thought of going themselves, so as to spare our beloved ones." Jansen looked around the gathering; there were many muttered acknowledgements and nods.

"But let us think about whether it will truly solve the problem. Let's face it, we're not as young as we used to be. Even if they take us, they might still want our sons, and if they don't they'll be wanting them all the more."

Another chorus of murmurs erupted, before the innkeeper addressed the meeting. "Better let them volunteer than have the soldiers drag them off in chains. I hear Ulfric's patience is at an end, he's been forcing people into service and shaming their families, if not outright branding them as traitors. He won't overlook us forever. Friends, I don't think there's an easy way out of this."

xxxx

Afterwards, watching the sun set and turn the sky and clouds a vivid pink, even as all colour slowly bled out from the world, Gundar sat slumped on a roughly hewn bench that stood alongside the house. He had not mustered the energy to face his family, instead wondering how it had come to this.

Eric found his father in his, as he called it, favourite thinking place; staring into space.

Gundar had not looked up when he heard footsteps approach on gravel, he did not have to. It was Eric, who carefully lowered himself beside him, approaching as someone would a wild animal.

"Are you intending to leave too?", Gundar asked, defeated.

"Somebody's got to keep those two blockheads from killing each other when the army puts swords in their hands."

In spite of himself, Gundar could not suppress a soft chuckle. For once it was Eric being the sensible one. It seemed his world had turned upside-down overnight. His quiet son was showing temper, while his hot-headed brother was arguing reason. Gundar heaved himself to his feet, feeling his age keenly on this day. Turning to Eric, he stated "It turns out that if I do not let you go, the recruiters will make you. But I will be damned if I allow you to be off before your sister's wedding."

Erik had expected as much and frankly, he was not very enthusiastic about the idea of leaving. Rising as well he walked up to his father. "Let's go inside and tell them, shall we?"

Secretly, Argis was glad that their departure had been postponed. Katla's wedding was to take place at the end of Rain's Hand, giving him somewhat over a month's time to get used to the idea that he truly would leave home. Time, that passed entirely too quickly. When the day of the wedding drew near, their entire village helped with the preparations. The night before everybody was casting nervous glances towards the heavens, but the stars shone bright and clear, promising good weather for the morrow. When morning dawned sunny and cloudless, everybody breathed a sigh of relief. As most villagers were farmers, they were not responsible to anyone, except for themselves and so many took at least a part of their day off.

Argis had not seen his sister since breakfast, Ivanna had shooed them all out of the house to have some time with her daughter. Whatever woman did before marriage, it took a long time and it probably involved too much skirts and hair braiding to be of any interest to Argis. So he made his way to one of the tables and tried to join in with the talk and laughter, even though his heart wasn't really in it.

Neither Katla nor her husband would join the army, somebody had to stay and help with the farm. It would be an arduous year without the brothers, even though Katla's husband was there to help out.

In the afternoon brother Jansen held the ceremony and afterwards there was food and drink, songs and dances. As the Cove celebrated the happy occasion, Argis could not help but notice that the joy was dampened by the knowledge that this was also goodbye. Some boys and miller Matje's eldest daughter had already set out, but most had chosen to stay for a while longer. Tension hung in the air and it was evident by the way people tried to drink it away, by how the music sometimes was too loud and the laughter too shrill.

After a night of merrymaking dawn arrived all too soon and Argis slung the knapsack he had packed nearly a month ago over his shoulder. In sharp contrast to yesterday's drinking, farewell was a sober affair. Tears were shed as everybody hugged and their parents made Argis and his brother swear they would be careful. Eric had to promise Gundar to look after his little brother and to keep Argis and Olav from fighting each other.

And finally they set out, waving a last goodbye to Ivanna, who stood in the doorway with Svenja, who clung to her mother's skirts and stared at them wide-eyed. "Mama, where are they going?" When there was no response, the girl looked up at her mother and tugged at her skirt. "Where are Argis and Eric and Olav going, mama?"

"To fight the bad man", Ivanna answered, not looking away from the dwindling forms of her sons for even a moment, trying to memorize every detail and to preserve it, firmly believing that she could stave off even the inevitable, by sheer force of will.

"When will they come back?"

"I don't know, child. I don't know."

* * *

**AN**: I really did not want to split this chapter, but after some consideration I decided it was for the best. So, instead for one long chapter you'll get two shorter ones. I'm sorry, but it just felt wrong to throw the family argument, the farewell, the military camp and training together.

And I should mention that Rain's Hand is April, so now it's late spring.


	4. Chapter 4

At first the brothers were excited to journey, but their initial eagerness wore off when the weather turned foul. Argis was wet, cold and altogether miserable as he lay on the hard ground that was slowly turning into mud. They had travelled north, in the direction of Karthwarsten, but before they could reach the town they had crossed the river Karth, heading east. Ulfric's army was encamped on the great plains between Rorikstaed and the mountains that marked the border of the Reach. It was the farthest any of them had ever been from home and Argis had to tell himself that no, he was not homesick. Because brave warriors surely did not long for soft beds and he was about to become one. A warrior, though Argis was not so sure about the 'brave' part.

On the road they encountered many others going in the same direction, Ulfric's camp was like a maelstrom, pulling in everyone who dared to venture too close. Nonetheless Argis was glad when after a long journey they finally arrived. The sight that greeted them stole their breath away. A sea of tents rose before them, bigger than anything they could have imagined and dwarfing even Markarth in size. The boys took their time to just stand and stare at it all. The hundreds, if not thousands tents were arranged into precise squares with big roads and narrow alleyways lying between them. Horses stood in corrals while livestock grazed outside the camp in flocks of a size that made Argis' head spin.

This was no mere camp, it was a city and it hummed with life. Argis stretched his neck trying to glimpse it all, while Erik swore in terms that would make his father slap him upside the head. There were messengers running around while carriages continued to pour in an out of the gates and soldiers marched past. After the quiet of the road the clamour was terrible. Above the camp, emanating from hundreds of campfires, a cloud of dark smoke hung.

When Argis and his brothers approached the gates they were stopped by two guards. "Hold up there, you. State yar business", one of them said, lazily chewing on a toothpick.

"We want to join Ulfric. To fight the Forsworn", Olav answered him.

"Aye. Ya came to the right place, then. See that big blue tent over there? That's where you'll be wanting to go. Just follow the main road."

Argis looked over to where the soldier had pointed and nodded his thanks before walking up to the gates. This was it, he thought, the point from which there was no return. He passed the ditch and a low palisade wall and slowly strode to the middle of the camp, gawking as he went. In passing he noticed that the road he walked upon was made from rough cobblestones, thus preventing the horses from trampling it into a mire. The brothers reached the blue tent and a guard waved them through the open flap with barely a glance. Behind a sturdy oaken table littered with papers a sour faced man sat. When he heard them enter he looked up from his work and glared at Argis. "Names and village", he barked at them.

"Argis Gundarsson", Argis said and made a motion with his hand to encompass his brothers "we are from the Cove."

"The Cove, you say? Heard 'bout you before. Got ourselves some volunteers from there. Did you volunteer?"

"Yes, Sir. We all did."

Leaning over his desk the Nord looked them carefully over. They had come in unaccompanied by any soldiers and they did not look half as desolated as the other farm boys sitting behind him. Argis saw the man's dour demeanour lessen for a moment as he exclaimed "Well, well, it looks like Skyrim has some true sons after all", while throwing a disparaging glance at the other recruits. Motioning to the benches he told the brothers "Best sit yer arses down, the Captain will be here by midday to sort you lot out", and without a further glance at the recruits he went back to studying his reports.

The wait was long and boring; Argis' backside going numb from the hard seat, so he was glad when there was a small commotion as a messenger came in and quietly talked to the Nord in charge, who promptly abandoned his work. Standing up he addressed the forty or so recruits. "Get up and follow me."

They were led to a small square between the tents, where the Nord told them to line up, placing Argis, Eric and Olav at the left end of the line and somewhat apart from the others, a special place reserved for volunteers. They did not have to wait long this time for the Captain to appear. He was a bulky man, clad in shining armour with a bear pelt hanging from his shoulders.

"For heaven's sake, stand still you useless clods!", the man from the tent bellowed at them when a few recruits nervously shuffled their feet and craned their necks. "And look straight ahead!"

Considering how nervous Argis was at first, the sorting proved to be a surprisingly uninteresting matter. The Captain walked alongside their line, calling out numbers and names to the man at his side, who noted it all down. He made his way along the line without breaking his stride, down to where Olav stood.

"4a." Then it was Eric's turn. "Put him in the defence."

When the Captain reached Argis he opened his mouth, closed it and stopped. Squinting at Argis, who suddenly had to fight the urge to fidget the man enquired "How old are you, boy?"

"Six-and-ten, sir", Argis answered.

"Are these your brothers?" The Captain indicated Olav and Eric with a dip of his head.

Argis nodded. "Yes, sir."

The Captain studied him for a while longer before turning to his scribe. "Put him in with the Heavies." He then continued on his way, leaving behind a confused and admittedly, slightly scared Argis.

The scribe remained and oversaw their _distribution_. It was so well organized and exact, Argis had a disturbing vision of himself being nothing but crop. Argis ended up with Lieutenant Carsten, a man with grey hair and eyes cold as steel, who did not seem very impressed with his charge. "Captain must've seen something in you", he grumbled as he led Argis to his quarters briefing him on his duties and on the second heavy infantry regiment that Argis now was a part of.

Training began early next morning and Argis saw why the Lieutenant had been so very unenthusiastic. Argis must have been the youngest member of the two hundred recruits. It was a small mercy that there were others who had never held a sword in their hands before. At first they were instructed how to take proper care of arms and armour. They proceeded by learning the basics of fighting with sword and shield, their training accompanied by rigorous exercises meant to increase their strength and endurance. Argis felt like he was being destroyed, as he fell into his cot each evening, bone weary and every part of his body aching. When their taskmaster announced they would forgo weapons training in favour of marching drills he sorely needed the respite. The recruits spent the next couple of days learning various battle and marching formations, as they at first haphazardly tried to keep up with Carsten's bellowed orders.

Argis had precious little free time and most of it he spent resting. One day though he sought out his brothers, whom he had not seen in over a month now. He found Eric standing guard, equipped with a shield and a spear. Eric's training had mostly consisted of his trainers telling him to keep the shield up and the spear aimed at his enemies. Olav somehow had made it into the cavalry and Argis felt relieved that his brother was not here when he told Eric that by now their brother's head must have swollen so badly no helmet would fit him.

Two months into Argis' training the main bulk of the army left for Markarth. Ulfric's intention was to starve out the Forsworn before chancing a direct attack. Because the city had been well supplied when it was taken, the enemy would be able to hold out for a long time.

Argis remained behind. Their regiment continued to drill until everybody found their place and their lines were no longer crooked. That was when Carsten took them out, away from the training grounds and accompanied by a horse drawn cart full with provision they set out over the plains. They carried only light gear and it had not seemed very strenuous at first, though after several days their backpacks turned into heavy burdens. At night the recruits would sit around the campfires and massage their sore feet, too tired to talk. They walked, trained, resupplied and then they walked some more.

Thus the months passed until almost a year after he had set out from home, Argis found himself marching in lock-step with his comrades towards Markarth whilst chatting merrily. He wore armour, though he would have to get it adjusted, as the breastplate was somewhat tight around his chest. It was nothing new; he had paid the blacksmith three visits already. His entire gear weighted a full hundred pounds, but he no longer felt the weight, even as their regiment marched an average of twenty miles per day. Not that they could sleep and rest once they reached their destination. Before anything else, they would make a suitable camp, which meant digging a trench and fortifying it with stakes they carried with them. They had to dig latrines, chop firewood, cook, raise their tents and clean their armour. Of course they continued to practice swordfighting.

Argis heard the army long before he saw it. By now it was an almost familiar sight, though the sheer size of it did not cease to amaze him. Later, he learned that engineers had built siege engines in order to sap the walls, when it became evident that an undermining of the city's walls was impossible, due to Markarth being built on solid stone. They were the last group to arrive. That night they celebrated the official end of being recruits, for they were soldiers now. Their carousing was fuelled by copious amounts of ale, a gift from their commander. If they wanted to get inebriated they would have to do so now, as drunkenness on the eve of battle would not be tolerated.

Argis joined the revelry, but instead of drinking himself into oblivion, he chose to search out his brothers. He spend a surprisingly peaceful evening with Eric and Olav, but while everyone seemed calm on the outside, Argis felt like he had swallowed hot coals. Stomach churning, he stayed up until fatigue overwhelmed him and he fell asleep.

One more day.

When Carsten asked him to run a few errands on the following morning, Argis was glad, for the task would at least occupy his body, if not his mind.

Evening arrived all too soon and Lieutenant Carsten had them line up in the main drill ground before addressing both regiments of 'Heavies'. It was the first time they were not subjected to his disdain and there might even have been a hint of pride in his voice as he spoke.

"Tomorrow there will be battle, but is not you who should fear that day, but the scum hiding in Markarth. We will flush those cowards, who will not meet us in open combat out, like the vermin they are. Any of you who fall, know that your spirits will live on forever in Sovngarde. Fight bravely and remember that your brothers and sisters in arms will stand beside you! Prove me right in saying that you are the bloody best unit in this army!"

This pronouncement was greeted with deafening cheers.

"Tomorrow, when the wall of Markarth falls, the first and second heavy infantry regiment will have the honour to be the first ones through the breach."

In the silence that followed somebody was heard muttering silently. "Fuck me sideways." Argis was no longer sure he made the right decision by leaving home.

* * *

**AN:** To battle!


	5. Chapter 5

The following chapter is part of why this story is rated M!

* * *

At first light the sound of trumpets rang out over the valley, signifying the beginning of a series of events that would later be remembered in history as the Markarth Incident.

For Argis it meant that the waiting was finally over. His day started like any other, as he relieved himself, donned his armour and inspected his sword one last time. Everything was in order and the routine of handling his gear helped to calm him down and maintain his focus. He had seen the blacksmith about his breastplate yesterday and now it fit like a glove. The edge of his blade was sharp and smooth, but strong. It was time.

He made his way to where his regiment was assembling, taking up his position in the ranks. When the entire army had gathered, an eerie hush settled over the camp, the silence grating on everyone's already frayed nerves. Argis held his breath until he heard the first deep, rolling booms of the drums, the sound washing over him, quickening his heartbeat and releasing him from his stasis.

The commanding officers took up their positions, Lieutenant Carsten shouting for them to "advance!"

A tremor ran through the ranks and the soldiers lurched forward, but quickly found their pace as they slowly approached a segment of the wall that looked decidedly more damaged than the rest. From atop the walls Argis could hear the enemy jeer and throw insults at them, while they brandished their weapons.

The Forsworn did not fire at them, not yet, curious as to what the Nord intended to do. Their wall was weakened yes, but it still stood and the soldiers did not have any ladders. The largest part of the soldiers stopped outside of the reach of their inferior bows, but two groups boldly moved on.

Ulfric's plan of starving them out had not entirely succeeded. They were weakened but they had managed to smuggle sufficient amounts food into the city through the mountains. Ulfric had had his troubles in laying the siege, because Markarth was surrounded by mountains on three sides. While soldiers patrolled the paths, there was not enough space for them to form in mass, which rendered them vulnerable to attacks. The Forsworn had survived and the Nord were mistaken if they thought they would give up easily. And while the force defending Markarth was formidable, the greatest part of the Reachmen warriors hid in the surrounding valleys, ready to storm forward and fall into Ulfric's back, as soon as the soldiers turned all their attention towards Markarth. It would be a glorious day to see the Nord break upon their walls as water breaks upon the rocks.

Just as the Forsworn commander was about to give the order to open fire, he saw something rolling from amongst the soldiers that he at first believed to be a battering ram. It looked almost like a miniature siege tower, it was so heavily reinforced; however its purpose not to attack, but to protect the one walking beneath it: Ulfric Stormcloak.

The walk up to the wall dragged on for what seemed like an eternity to Argis. For a long time nothing happened, but then a shout was heard from the battlements and the Forsworn assaulted them, not just with arrows and crossbow bolts, but also pelting them with stones. The first screams rang out as soldiers fell, some never to rise again. Argis held his shield up and tried hard not to look, not to think that there were people _dying_ around him and that he could easily be one of the shrieking, writhing lumps on the ground.

The Forsworn continued to shower them with deadly volleys, thinning out their ranks, but not overly so and they reached the wall, safeguarding Ulfric's stronghold with body and shield. Ulfric would bring the wall down, though nobody knew how. From where he stood in the back Argis did not see the Jarl of Windhelm, but he was glad to be in the rear nonetheless, as their enemies had started pouring boiling oil and pitch on the soldiers amassed beneath them. The piercing screams of the wounded made Argis want to drop his shield and hold his ears closed, except that his shield was the only thing that kept him from suffering a similar fate.

Whatever Ulfric was doing, he took his sweet time about it, but suddenly a thunderous voice rose from the front, drowning out the twangs of bowstrings and the wails of the wounded for one moment. The words were of a language unknown to Argis, but they carried a terrible power and he watched in disbelief as a part of the wall gave way, crumbling and burying both friend and foe beneath a cascade of boulders. Yells of surprise and dismay arose from the Forsworn defenders.

The Nord answered with their own fierce battle cries, before storming the gap at the same time as Ulfric's tower slowly made its way back towards the bulk of the forces. Argis had no choice but to charge alongside his comrades or otherwise risk being stamped to death. He added his voice to that of the others, lowering his shield, so that he could see where he was going and instinctively stooping, trying to make himself as small a target as possible. They met little resistance and were able to regroup hurriedly once they were through the breach.

Closing their ranks they marched onwards, shields locked against the first wave of assailants. Argis felt the clash as their ranks trembled and buckled, but they held fast and the soldiers were able to push forward, driving the enemy before them towards Markarth's main street. Argis had yet to do any active fighting and from his position he was not able to see what lay before him, but he felt it when their advance came to a sudden stop.

Instead of walking through the street they found themselves before a wall. A second wall. A second wall that Markarth did not have. Except that it did. It rose up before them with only a gap wide enough for two men to pass through; and it was bristling with Forsworn. Behind them their enemy abandoned the main wall as war horns rang out and a terrible clamour sounded from outside the city.

They were trapped.

And then all hell broke loose.

xxxx

When the first rows of Nord dropped under a volley of arrows Argis suddenly found himself in the front, stumbling over the bodies of his fallen friends, his first opponent swinging his sword at Argis' face. Training took over and he took a step back, assuming a sideways stance to buy himself some time and because it made him a smaller target. The Forsworn charged him head-on, his serrated blade descending in a wide arc. Wide enough for Argis to step forward, into the attack and to smash his shield into the surprised man, whose blade bounced off the wood and bit deep into its owner's neck. Argis watched in a mix of curiosity and horror as the man let go of his sword in favour of clutching his neck, which was spurting blood in a crimson torrent. The jagged edge had ripped open the Reachman's artery and Argis had never thought that there was so much blood in a human being. For a fraction of a second he forgot about the battle, as he watched the man at his feet die, while a distant part of his mind whispered that it was just like slaughtering one of the farm animals. The man's eyes rolled with the same panic and incomprehension and even his final grunts could be mistaken for those of a sow.

Argis had made his first kill. Before he could fully grasp the reality of it, he had to move once again, a Forsworn woman was aiming her bow at him and he was lucky to raise his shield in time, the impact of the arrow rocking him back and knocking his shield painfully against his jaw. He did not want to fight her, but he did; his lieutenant's voice echoing in his head. _Always go for the kill_. He shattered her skull, even as he thought that she was somebody's daughter. A sister, maybe a mother. He heard himself scream, but he was hardly the only one, the noise around him was a deafening cacophony of clashing weapons and shouting.

An explosion to his right had Argis looking around. He saw an impressive figure with a headdress made from a dear's skull standing on the wall, shooting balls of fire at them. A cry of 'briarheart' went up and the stench of burned flesh and hair filled the air. Argis felt his eyes burn and water from the acrid fumes, or maybe it was from seeing his regiment, his comrades, some who had been fast friends, massacred. The enemy came on, merciless and unyielding and Argis lost himself in the fighting, his only coherent thought '_I don't wanna die, I don't wanna die I don't wanna die I don't wanna die I don't wanna die I don't wanna die..._' running through his head like a prayer.

He hung onto it, like a drowning men clings to flotsam, repeating it over and over in his head, and if he was yelling it at the top of his lungs, he could not tell. When next he risked looking around, maybe a tenth of their force was still standing, but still no reinforcements arrived to help them out of their dire straits. The magic attacks had stopped some time ago, so somebody must have gotten through to the briarheart. A rider chose that very moment to charge through the breach. He wore the telltale yellow attire of a messenger, but instead of riding up to them, the man toppled from his mount, not far from where Argis stood. His clothes were bloodied.

The horse, riddled with arrows, tottered a few steps farther, before it heavily collapsed to the ground, where it continued to kick feebly.

Argis made his way over to where the man was lying and turned him around. The man's mouth moved, though Argis did not hear the whispered words.

"What?", Argis asked, leaning in and bringing his ear to the man's mouth to hear better.

"Ret...ret...retr.", was the only thing the messenger got out between death rattles.

"What?", Argis bellowed and shook him, desperate to get an answer, but the man did not get any farther. Blood poured out of his mouth and dribbled down his chin as his eyes rolled back in his head to stare sightlessly at the sky.

"What did he say?!", a shrill voice enquired. Argis recognized Marta, a woman from his regiment.

He stared horrified at the corpse he held, as despair sank in. "I don't know", he whispered hoarsely.

Most of the Forsworn from the main wall had been killed, but there was a never-ending stream of them pouring through the gap of the second wall. Somebody had to stop them. As if in a trance, Argis staggered up and carefully walked towards the gap. The footing was treacherous, because the once solid ground had turned into an ankle-deep muck of blood, piss and feces, littered with body parts and corpses. In their own way the dead were better than the wounded, once strong men and women who now shrieked for their mothers and grasped for Argis' ankles, as if his ruined boots somehow offered them salvation. Argis closed his heart against the wails, but there was no way to close his eyes to the sights, though the tears streaming down his face blurred his vision somewhat. He passed one of his friends, who sat leaning against the wall, his abdomen ripped open and guts lying about like a gruesome display at the butcher's, even as the man was staring at them disbelievingly. He left behind many others, their once familiar faces distorted by either death or agony.

With a war cry worthy of Ysgramor himself, Argis launched himself at the Forsworn, wanting nothing but to take vengeance upon those responsible for this carnage. He sent one of his adversaries sprawling as he knocked into him, stabbing his sword through the man's chest. Luck was not with him, because his blade got stuck. Stepping on the man for leverage, he wrenched it out by brute force, ripping a part of the bawling man's ribcage out with it. He would never have parried the second Forsworn's attack, but thankfully a familiar figure appeared beside him. Marta, bless her, had come to his aid.

By now Argis' shield was in tatters and when he blocked a particularly powerful stroke, it fell apart completely. Finding himself without a means of defence, Argis cursed vividly, as he hastily beat a retreat, but his feet tangled in something and he was sent sprawling. Of all things Argis had managed to stumble across the dead horse. Above him he heard the advancing Reachman laugh out. Struggling wildly, but unsuccessfully to get up, he stilled when one of his flailing hands connected with something beneath the dirt. He saw his adversary come to a stand above him and raise his blade. As it descended, he tugged with all his strength, managing to wrench a pavise from the sludge and to knock aside the Forsworn man's sword and judging by the sound, to break his hand. Argis slashed his sword at him, because the angle was wrong for stabbing. The blow would have disembowelled his attacker, but Argis' sword was blunted so badly, it was little better than a club. He used it as such, continuing to rain blows down upon the Reachman, until his foe stopped moving.

Crawling out of the muck on all fours, Argis glanced at his new shield. It was painted yellow and had probably belonged to the messenger. Not that it had done him much good. Looking around he felt panic rise in his chest.

It was just him and Marta left.

Argis was on the defensive against a Forsworn man wielding two swords, when he saw a second enemy trying to circle him. Marta was busy fighting somewhere out of his sight.

"KILL HIM", Argis roared at her, because there was no way he could defend himself against two attackers, hard-pressed as he was already. "Kill him! kill him! kill him!"

At first it seemed that she would not be able to disengage, but she managed to cut her adversary down, before she surprised the Forsworn whose entire focus was on Argis. Marta's cry of triumph was cut short, turning into a wet gurgle as a crossbow bolt ripped out her throat. Fixing beseeching eyes on Argis she, who had saved his live, died as he could do nothing in return to help her.

Now he was truly alone.

He heaved his pavise up and a second crossbow bold punched through the leather and wood, the tip protruding half an inch from Argis' eye. If he let the marksman have another shot, chances were he would not survive it. Crying his defiance in the face of his enemies, he rushed through the gap, going after the shooter. How long he fought he did not know, but while he had felt exhausted before, now he was dead tired. Argis' sword hand shook and he could no longer lift the heavy shield. When he slipped and fell, he had no strength left to get up. "What was the point of fighting anyway?", he thought as he lay in the bloody mire that he himself would soon become a part of. He stared up at the Forsworn advancing at him, knowing that he was looking at his death.

Therefore, it was in utter disbelief as he watched his attacker's head disintegrate beneath a powerful blow. The corpse fell on him, trapping him under its weight, until he managed to kick himself free.

Rescue had come in the form of a lanky, light blonde youth who kept the Reachman at distance by flailing around with two axes like a madman; though it was evident he had no inkling about fighting. At first Argis thought he was hallucinating or that maybe some saint had come to spirit him off to Sovngarde. Only he did not think that ghosts would shout at him to "get his damned, bloody, sodden arse up and _fight_!"

xxxx

Ulfric Stormcloak calmly watched the battle that waged around him. When the Reachmen stormed at them from behind, it did not come as a surprise to him. He had planned ahead, and put the recruits from the defensive forces in the back. It meant that most of those recruits would pay with their lives, but while it was unfortunate, he would not risk the lives of fully-trained, seasoned warriors. Thus, he held his regular troops back and let the Forsworn wear themselves out before he ordered the cavalry to charge one flank, whilst he himself led the attack against the other. Between themselves they had managed to crush the Forsworn. But he had not forgotten the infantry within the city. Ulfric sent a messenger to tell them to retreat, but so far, none had come out and he knew that something must have gone terribly wrong.

With the army at his back he marched into Markarth only to find himself taken aback. It was not the bloodbath that shocked him, however, nor the second wall, but the sight of a single soldier holding his own against a number of Forsworn. The warrior's hair might have been blonde, but grime and blood had stained it a reddish brown. In fact, there was not much of him visible beneath the dirt, covered as he was from head to toes in blood.

"For the Nord!", Ulfric bellowed, as he charged the remaining Forsworn, pleased to see when they drew back in fear, as they should. Soon he realized that it was not him they retreated from, but the lone warrior, who was roaring some garbled nonsense, half of which consisted of cures, at the top of his lungs, crying at the same time as he wielded his sword with such frenzy, Ulfric half believed him to be possessed.

When the last Reachman attacked, the power of Argis' counterattack took off half of his head. The remaining Forsworn pointed at him, shouting 'varghast', _demon _and fleeing before his wrath. Argis would have collapsed then and there, had not somebody held him up.

Seeing that the warrior was not as alone as Ulfric had at first believed him to be, he nonetheless turned to the man at his side. "Lieutenant, take care of him."

"Yes, sir", answered the man, whose name was Carsten. He approached the soldier, who was half-carried, half-dragged by a tall blonde youth. Carsten recognized the warrior; he had been the last to join the second regiment.

"Here, let me help you, lad", he told the struggling boy. Together they managed to get Argis away from the carnage, and into an abandoned, if roofless house, where he broke down in a sobbing mess.

"I'll be back soon, watch over him", Carsten said to his helper, before running out of the house. He had to find some things and no time to lose. Extreme fatigue and shock could kill a man as easily as an untreated wound.

Back in the ruin of a house Argis felt somebody sink down next to him.

"Hey, it's over", his companion said in such a thick brogue that Argis stared at him, uncomprehending. Friendly blue eyes looked back at him. Seeing the wide-eyed look the soldier gave him, even as he heavily gulped for air, the blonde tried again. "It's over, and you're alive. You're fine", he said, patting the panicked man's shoulder. "Hey, what's your name?"

"Argis", Argis croaked out, his throat feeling as if it was on fire.

"I'm Hákan. Oh, look, there's your friend", the boy named Hákan told Argis, not knowing that Carsten was Argis' commander, not his friend.

The lieutenant entered, carrying a heavy bundle under his arms, out of which he pulled out a set of clean clothes, a pallet and a heavy woollen blanket, as well as several flasks and a loaf of bread. "I have to join Ulfric. You'll keep an eye on him, won't you?", Carsten asked Hákan, who nodded mutely.

Argis wanted nothing more than to get out of his garments, that were soiled in more ways than one, but his hands shook so badly, he could not get his armour's straps open.

"Here, let me help you", Hákan said and Argis felt himself being undressed like he was some infant or an imbecile.

He could not muster the energy to care, let alone protest and he did feel a thousandfold better once he put on the clean clothing. Hákan uncorked one of the flasks and passed it to him and Argis drank deeply, only now noticing how thirsty he had been, how parched his throat felt. The water had a herbal, somewhat bitter taste, but right now it was the most delicious thing to him.

There were screams coming from farther inside the city, but he was so tired, he slumped against the wall and closed his eyes. The last thing Argis knew was that he was covered by a thick, warm blanket.

xxxx

The killing did not stop when the battle was over. As the last rays of sunlight glinted off their polished armour, the soldiers executed every able bodied man and woman who did not pick up arms against the remaining Forsworn. On that day the streets of Markarth ran red.

Blood and Silver.

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**AN:** I hope I did not just manage to turn you away from this story. Most of it won't be as brutal, but I really wanted to give a realistic impression of war. And frankly, I was quite fed up with all that glorious-battle-decapitating-enemies-with-one-stri ke nonsense. So I hope you're still with me and will continue to read, because that's what keeps me writing. =)


	6. Chapter 6

I swear, this chapter is jinxed. I've been trying to start writing on it for 5! days and every time I sat down to do so, something terribly important happened that needed my immediate attendance.

But now you don't have to wait any longer. So, here it is. Enjoy!

* * *

Argis blearily opened his eyes, blinking against the bright light. The sun was high in the sky and his first thought was that he had overslept and that Carsten was going to skin him. He did not get much further, because then he _remembered_ and he felt like he was drowning in the tidal wave of memories that washed over him, just as the sea washes over the unwary. Argis shot upright, looking around himself frantically. He was inside a house, although it wasn't much of one, considering it was missing the roof. He did not recall how he got there.

"I see you're awake", a voice from the corner said, making him jump. "It's 'bout time, too."

It was the boy speaking, the one who had saved his life. Hákan, Argis thought and felt pathetic by how much comforted he was by the other's presence. Argis tried to speak, but his throat was so abused, he could not get a sound out.

Hákan continued, oblivious to Argis' attempts of speech, in such a thick accent, Argis understood only about one third of what he was saying. "You gave us quite a scare, you know? Your commander, the Gray One that is, told me to watch over you, so I did. He brought you a sleeping draught that I was supposed to give to you should you have trouble sleeping. 'Cept I kind of got the flasks mixed up and you drank the whole lot of it instead of the water. Commander was pretty pissed too, but he said there was nothin' for it, but to wait it out. You were out for two days, did you know?" He grinned at Argis like being unconscious for such a length of time was some great accomplishment. "Oh, and I almost forgot. He said he wanted to see you when you came around, which you just did."

Hákan walked over and helped a dumbfound Argis to his feet. "Here, you might want to drink this. It's just water this time." Argis happily accepted the water, though upon hearing how his friend had managed to drug him once he could not help but be somewhat suspicious.

We better get goin', I don't fancy getting another scolding", Hákan continued and motioned for Argis to follow him. Argis did so without protest. His head felt like it was stuffed full of cotton and he had yet to have a single coherent thought. Something was wrong with eyes too, because the afternoon light was so harsh he had to shield his face with his arm. His right arm, as could not lift his left. It spiked a small spark of curiosity within Argis, but it was soon quenched when a hand grabbed his wrist and steered him along. Argis' movements were sluggish and he felt strangely detached from everything that was going around him, almost as if he was drunk. They made their way through the city and finally Hákan knocked on a door that opened and Argis stepped into a blessedly dim interior.

"Divines, he looks half-asleep", Carsten said as Argis lethargically blinked up at him. Argis remembered that there was something important about the man, but he did not care and even as his mind whispered to _salute_, his body disobeyed.

Turning back to Hákan the lieutenant frowned. "Did he eat anything before you dragged him here?"

The blonde looked abashed. "Erm, no."

Sighing Carsten manoeuvred Argis to a table and put a steaming bowl of something in front of him ordering him to "eat!" in a tone that brooked no argument. Argis did not much care for the soup, except that it was liquid and did not aggrieve his throat too much, as he methodically started to spoon it up.

"Is there anything I can do?", Hákan asked from where he was hovering in the doorway

"Thank you boy, you did quite enough. It seems a wonder Argis survived your ministrations", Carsten ground out and would have shoved the door closed in the boy's face. Instead he added "You can go find a bathtub, bring it here and fill it up with hot water." The blonde nodded mutely and turned to leave, but a soft rasp stopped him.

"Hákan", Agris got out, despite his throat feeling like he had a load of iron filings stuck in it. "Thank you."

Instantly the hangdog expression changed into a dazzling smile and Hákan waved Argis goodbye and practically skipped down the street, whistling as he went.

"He drugs, starves and drags you around whilst you're barely conscious and you thank him for it?" Carsten sounded incredulous.

"He saved my life", Argis whispered, sincere, though he could barely muster the energy to keep his eyes open.

"Did he now?" the lieutenant looked thoughtful, but did not comment farther.

For the next couple of hours Argis fitfully slept off the last traces of the sleeping potion. When he awoke, Carsten was nowhere in sight, but there was a full bathtub awaiting him and Argis did not waste any time before he made good use of it. It took him what seemed like hours to get the dirt and grime off and out of his hair, which was tangled so badly, he almost despaired trying to comb it out. In the end, cutting out the worst snarls did the trick. By the time he was finished the water had turned from lukewarm to cold and a murky brown in colour.

In the meantime the lieutenant returned, carrying in a big chest. Seeing Argis sit on the bed, a somewhat forlorn look at his face, Carsten sat down next to him.

"How are you feeling, son?"

Argis must have looked as shocked as he felt. For a year the only way Carsten had addressed his charges was 'recruit' or 'boy'. But Argis saw only genuine concern in the lieutenant's eyes. How did he feel? Frankly, he did not know himself. For a year he had trained for the confrontation with the Forsworn, though nothing had prepared him for what he had faced in battle. Mulling over the other man's question he finally asked shakily "What am I going to do now?"

Carsten sighed. It would be a shame to let Argis fall into the dark chasm of hopelessness and drink that had claimed so many warriors already, those who were not able to forget, yet not ready to move on.

"As a man who's seen more war than peace, let me give you some advice, son. Life goes on. Don't waste time looking behind; nothing's gonna change the past. Find a purpose, something you like, something that makes you happy and keep at it. Time will help. "

It was good counsel, Argis thought, except for one minor detail. "I'm a farmer. What purpose will I find?" After some contemplation he softly added "I don't think I can go back and live like all of this has never happened."

"Maybe you won't have to." When he caught sight of the confused look on Argis' face, the lieutenant shook his head. "That's all I can say for now. Tomorrow there will be a tribute to all those who distinguished themselves on the field of battle. You will receive special honors for holding the gap against the enemy. He gave the chest a small kick adding "You'll find suitable clothes and armour in here. Don't get used to them though, they're just for show. "

"You know?"

Chuckling, Carsten replied "I'm afraid everyone knows. You're a hero now. Your friend did not waste any time in spreading the word around, either. Story gets more embellished every time I hear it."

"Oh." Argis had no idea how to respond. He should be happy and proud, right? Instead, he felt vaguely sick. There had been nothing heroic in his struggle to survive, nor in how his friends had been butchered.

"I don't feel like a hero."

"I bet you don't." There was an uncomfortable silence, before Carsten tried to lighten the mood. "Ulfric wanted to address the soldiers two days ago, but we had to postpone the ceremony, as the man of the hour was out cold."

"I'm sorry."

Carsten snorted, the whole accident with Argis downing the entire sleeping potion was rather amusing. "Don't apologise. You did nothing wrong. I suggest you get some more rest now. Tomorrow at midday I will escort you. And tell 'the blonde pain in the arse' he's to come, too. There's something for him in that chest as well."

xxxx

On the morning of the next day Argis was spared the task of looking for Hákan, because he came to pay Argis a visit, greeting Argis with his customary grin.

"You're lookin' better. But that's not sayin' much, you could hardly look worse. Honestly, I've seen a drowned rat in a gutter and it had been a more cheerful sight. Hey, did you know there's a parade today? Are you going? Do you think they'll let me watch?

Argis had to smile at the endless chatter. He surprised the boy by saying that yes, he did know that there was a parade, yes, he was going and Hákan was coming with him. Their conversation was mostly one-sided, a fact that neither of them seemed to mind, though at last Argis' curiosity got the better of him.

"Where did you come from?"

"I live here, in Markarth." Hákan gave Argis a look that clearly said that it was a dumb question.

"No, I meant...", Argis faltered for a moment under the onslaught of memories "...I meant on the day of the battle."

"Oh." Hákan contemplated what to say before resuming "I saw you from where I live. The soldiers, I mean. I watched the battle and I saw when it went wrong." He cast Argis' a worried glance, but Argis just nodded for him to continue. "When it was just you two, I thought you might make it, there weren't that many Forsworn left, after all. But when... I...I had to help." At this point Hákan stuttered somewhat "I could not watch them kill you, so I grabbed those axes and ran out, thought I could surprise the Forsworn. It wasn't that hard, they were so focused on you, they never saw me coming."

"You are very brave, you know?", Hákan suddenly blurted out, flushing a deep red.

Argis felt somewhat embarrassed by the compliment. He coughed to cover it up, muttering a "thanks", and quickly changing the topic. "You said you live here. Does that mean there are other people in Markarth?"

"Yeah, it's a big city, people live here."

"It's just, we thought the Forsworn had killed everybody", Argis explained hastily.

"Nu-uh. They killed lots of people, but they needed others to work for them."

Argis did not recall seeing anybody other than Hákan and Carsten since the battle. Had there been civilians on the streets? Inebriated as he had been when they walked up to the lieutenant's house, his recollection was rather hazy.

There was something else that was nagging on Argis' mind, however. Turning to his companion he asked "How old are you?"

"Four-and-ten or maybe it's five-and-ten now, I dunno", Hákan shrugged negligently.

Argis had not thought that Hákan was that young, mostly because he was as tall as Argis already. He certainly acted his age though, when he found out what was inside the chest. Then again, Argis himself was struck speechless, as he beheld the fine clothes and a polished set of armour. He had never seen their like before.

Midday arrived and with it Carsten to escort them. Hákan seemed to be enjoying himself immensely, strutting as he was through the streets. Argis could not help but laugh, but instead of feeling offended Hákan flashed him one of his grins and continued, solely for Argis' amusement while Carsten tried to incinerate the youth with his glares.

Of the four hundred recruits that had formed the first and second heavy infantry regiment fifteen had survived the battle. There would have been three more, except that Ulfric had them hanged for desertion. Argis was thankful the parade did not take place where the traitors still hung from the gibbet. He did have to fight the urge to throw up though when they entered the main square and several hundred pairs of eyes fixed on him. There was a loud trumpet blast and then the soldiers came to attention, saluting. Saluting him, Argis realized with a sudden pang. He made his way over to his honorary position and mentally thanked Carsten for all those hours of exercising that allowed him to keep his posture.

Shortly after Argis first caught sight of Ulfric Stormcloak who was such an impressing figure, Argis quickly forwent paying attention to the ceremony in favour of gawking. He did have a wake-up call when the object of his admiration came to a halt in front of him, addressing Argis directly.

"Argis, I have been told of how you alone held the gap against a multitude of Forsworn, until our main forces arrived. You have been a stronghold against your enemy; henceforth you shall be known as such, 'Argis the Bulwark'. Let this title bring pride to any true Nord and be a warning to your foes. As a reward for your services, you will be granted the opportunity to receive special training with the honorary guard of Markarth. The expenses will be paid in full by the hold of the Reach. Is there something you would like to say, Argis?

Argis' stomach churned and his throat felt dry, but he still managed to utter the following words: "Sir, I wasn't alone."

There was a chorus of gasps and mutters, but Ulfric looked pleased. "So I have heard. A brave warrior came to your aid when the need was great. What is your name, soldier?", the Jarl of Windhrlm asked, turning to Hákan, whose smile turned sour before entirely leaving his face.

Hákan looked stunned, before he silently muttered "I'm no soldier. 'M just a serf. Name's Hákan."

The surprise was clearly visible on Ulfric's face and Argis stared at his friend in shock. Serfs were the servile peasants, men not free to own land or titles and property of their freeholder.

Ulfric quickly regained his composure and announced in a booming voice "As of today, Hákan, I name you a free man of Skyrim. You too shall be granted free training and every army should be glad to have such a fine warrior amidst its ranks."

A thunderous applause followed the proclamation, in which Argis could hear Hákan repeat "I'm a free man. I'm a free man. Argis, did you hear?", while practically bouncing up and down. He was so excited, Carsten had to step on his toes to shut him up.

The rest of the ceremony passed rather quickly.

xxxx

Once they were back at the house, Argis wasted no time in changing into clothes that he was comfortable in. Carsten had dismissed him for the day and he had a task to do, something that had been on his mind ever since he woke up yesterday evening. The next couple of hours Argis attempted to gain some information on his brothers. After two days the army was finally getting their lists together and he succeeded, though afterwards he almost wished that he didn't.

Argis had been sitting at his brother's bedside for the past two days, but Olav refused to acknowledge him.

Olav's leg was in a splint, shattered from when his horse had fallen on him. He had continued to fight despite his injury, but his luck had run out that day and he had lost half of his swordhand when the crossguard of his sword gave way, whilst he had blocked an enemy blow. It was a common occurrence with inferior weapons.

When Argis had found his brother in an infirmary outside of Markarth their reconciliation had been strained, the joy marred by the news Argis had to break to Olav.

"Olav", Argis did not know how to say it. He had been devastated when he heard it. "Eric's dead."

"No." Olav was shaking his head in denial. "No, he can't be. You're lying."

"I would not..."

"LIAR!" Olav began to scream and thrash on his sickbed so violently it took several orderlies to hold him down. The others shot Argis filthy glances, and he left, the sound of Olav's sobbing haunting him. When Argis came back the other day, he was met with silence, though he refused to leave his brothers bedside.

In the evening Carsten got a hold of Argis and peppered him with questions concerning his future training in Markarth and whether he was going to accept. Finally he got frustrated by Argis' vague answers. "I hope you understand that this is a unique opportunity."

"I do", Argis assured him. There were however other things that occupied his mind at present. "With permission, sir, I would like to visit my family. And I have to get my brother home. He has been wounded and cannot walk."

"How do you plan on getting him home, then?", Carsten, ever the practical man, asked.

"I don't know, sir", Argis answered honestly.

Carsten studied Argis thoroughly, before giving a curt nod, as if he had just felled a decision. "I can get you a horse-drawn caravan. You know how to take care of a horse, lad?"

"I do, sir." They have had horses in the Cove, though Gundar had never owned one. Like any boy of his age Argis had been fascinated with the big animals.

"It'll take some time to rebuild the city and to clean up. Tell you what, you go now and you're still a soldier and have to be formally discharged. You have until the month's out to return the horse and make the decision, how's that sound?"

His lieutenant's kindness surprised Argis. Why did the man care? Whatever the reason, Argis could not afford to turn down help. He said his farewells to Hákan, who looked absolutely crestfallen upon hearing that Argis was leaving the city.

"You will come back, right?", he asked, not for the first time.

"I will", Argis promised him. He was going to miss his friend, whose endless chatter and cheerful demeanour had been a source of comfort to Argis. "I have to return the horse and cart anyway."

When the physician declared Olav stable enough to travel, Argis readied the horse and cart. Under any other circumstances Argis would have been excited to have his own horse, even if it was just for a month, but now he could barely muster any enthusiasm. It did not help that Olav's attitude towards him was worse than ever. He felt the hatred in his brother's gaze when he watched Olav try to awkwardly hobble with the help of a pair of heavy crutches.

"I don't need you", Olav hissed when Argis moved to help him. "I'll manage on my own!"

"Manage away, then", Argis replied, feeling anger rising. He turned around and walked back to the cart, climbing in the driver's seat. Let the pig-headed fool have his way. If he fell on his nose it wasn't Argis' fault, or his concern.

Their journey home passed in near hostile silence. What Argis had done to deserve such treatment he did not know. There was one moment when he believed that maybe the rift between him and his brother could be mended. After two days Olav finally broke the quiet.

"Eric was a good man. How could he die?" Olav's voice was streaked with grief and Argis thought that maybe that was what made his brother lash out at him.

But then Olav continued. "How could he die and you live? I wish it was the other way round. It should have been."

His words cut deep and they still rang in Argis' ears, when they reached the outskirts of the Cove in the evening.

_It should have been you._

He heard them when the first farmers caught sight of them, waving and cheering, crowding their cart and begging for information in their sons and daughters.

_It should have been you._

They carried on the breeze when Gundar and Ivanna stormed out of the house, their joyful expressions crumbling away as they looked down the road, praying for a second cart to appear.

_It should have been you._

When they held a ceremony for the departed, Argis could not look his family in the eyes, afraid they would blame him, too.

Nothing had changed around the farm, yet everything was different. With every passing day Argis became more conscious of the fact, that somehow, he no longer belonged here, in this place that had been his home for sixteen years. Maybe it was cowardice that drove him; the unwillingness to face Olav's injuries, his father's and mother's quiet sorrow that made him leave. Maybe he did not want to be in a place where he was constantly reminded that their family had been torn apart, conscious of the gaping hole where Eric should have been. In the end it did not matter. He yoked the mare Carsten lent him to the caravan and set out once again, back towards Markarth. Argis did not look back and when he passed the last buildings and fields that were the border of the Cove, he at long last breathed a sigh of relief.

* * *

**AN:** I'm sure some of you are wondering when the dragonborn will show up. As I said at the beginning I wanted to give Argis a proper background, something I might later base his interactions with his Thane on. I'm keeping the chapters deliberately short, because the main focus of the story will be on the adventures of Wulf and his poor housecarl. And I have a _ton_ of ideas; I can tell you, those two are in for a rough ride. Just know you won't have to wait much longer!


	7. Chapter 7

So, real life caught up with me lately. I've been trying hard to push it away.^^

* * *

At the age of eight-and-ten Argis was the youngest warrior in Markarth's history to receive training as a housecarl, or húskarl, as was the proper Nord term. There is a significant difference between a good fighter and a housecarl, who fights not only for himself, but for a Thane or another person of importance, whom he is sworn to serve and protect. That is why usually only experienced warriors are chosen to have the honour, but Ulfric must have pulled a few strings with the Jarl and Argis was allowed to participate.

In theory, anybody could become a housecarl. If two persons agreed that one would safeguard the other, that person became a housecarl in name.

True húskarla however underwent an education that consisted of far more than just weapons training. Argis also learned how to ride a horse, he studied the letters, how to read and write them and he attended lessons in history, geography and strategy. The main focus of his training however, was how to guard and defend a person and the acceptance of the fact that one day he might have to lay down his own life in order to save another.

Argis had joined Ulfric's army to protect his family, but his brothers had followed him and he had lost them both, though in different ways. If he could not even keep his family from harm, what good would he be as a housecarl? These doubts nagged on Argis' mind when he lay awake at night, tired, yet too agitated to fall asleep. In the darkness of the barracks he swore that this time he would make it right.

Not long after Argis had signed up for special training, Hákan had left with Carsten for Windhelm, where he was to receive his own training. Farewell was harder than it should have been, considering they had known each other a scant few months. It was a consolation that when Argis learned to write he could send letters now and then. Letters, which were answered, usually by a professional scribe, though Hákan signed them, his name probably being the only thing he could write.

In a city that was still mostly foreign to him and with his friend gone Argis threw himself into training with a single-mindedness that led to him being one of the most renowned warriors of Markarth within two year's time.

Fate dealt him a heavy blow when during a foray against the Forsworn, who had grown bold enough to attack some outlying farms, Argis was injured by a barbed javelin. The wound was grievous, but his comrades got him back to Markarth and its healers in time, otherwise he might not have made it. Argis survived and in time he healed, but due to being bedridden for a long time he was rendered unable to continue his training as a housecarl and dropped out, weakened in body and in spirit.

He did not give up, however, telling himself that it was just a setback, a minor inconvenience. Thus Argis hung on, grit his teeth and swore to regain his former shape. A feat that most deemed unlikely and in the end Argis was proud to prove them wrong, though it took him another two years to recover fully.

He learned an essential lesson during those years: the importance of the stubborn will to carry on. Jarl Igmund was so impressed by his warrior's dedication that he decided to allow him to begin housecarl training anew.

The training was rigorous, lasting six years and less than one fourth of the trainees saw it through to the end. Most dropped out of their own volition when they could no longer stand the strain, though this time they had a special reason to continue. The Jarl's own housecarl was getting too old to see to his duties and although normally the position was for a lifetime, it was possible to release the housecarl honourably from his services, especially if he had served faithfully for as long as Karl had. Kal had been Jarl Hrolfdir's housecarl, but was assigned to the Jarl's son, Igmund, when the boy had come of age. He had saved the future Jarl's life by getting him out of Markarth, even though the Forsworn were almost at the city's doorstep. Old age spared none though and within a few years Jarl Igmund and Karl would have to choose Karl's successor. The chances were high it would be somebody from the group of thirty trainees of which Argis was a part of.

Húskarl to the Jarl was the highest position a simple soldier could reach, unless he would be to do something truly remarkable and be rewarded the title of Thane.

Halfway through Argis' training an old friend of his put in an appearance.

After seven years Argis barely recognized the man that strode into the practice grounds one afternoon. Time had changed Hákan. He had been lanky, too thin to be healthy, but hard work and proper food had filled him out. Now he stood half a head over Argis, which made him tower head and shoulders over most everybody else and he had the breadth of shoulders to match his height. His light blonde hair had a multitude of carefully woven braids and he had grown a short, neat beard, not unlike Argis himself.

Some things remained unchanged, though. There was the same broad smile on his face and the same joy shone in his eyes, coupled with a mischievous glint. Hákan's hug nearly lifted Argis off his feet and it might have cracked a few ribs in the process, but Argis laughed it off, pounding on his friend's back, delighted that they would meet again.

Later, Argis took Hákan drinking and they talked through the night, getting reacquainted and the words flowed easily between them, despite the fact that they were practically strangers. It turned out Hákan had decided to return to Markarth for good, leaving the services of the army of Eastmarch, something he could only afford to do because a certain grumpy lieutenant had adopted him. He had missed the city of his birth and wanted to join the soldiers. Argis invited Hákan to stay with him, for he owned a small home close to the soldier's quarters. The reimbursement for his services in the battle for Markarth had been very generous and he had hardly any expenses at all with his training being funded. So Hákan moved in and Argis' home became a bit cramped, though a lot more comfortable. He never moved out again.

They did not become intimate, not for some time, until a drunken night that led to them jouncing a bed in the back of one of the barracks. Next day Argis' memories of what had occurred had been hazy, but he remembered that while some soldiers shoot him nasty glares, others grinned and gave him the thumbs up. Hákan was not Argis' first lover, but he was the first one the Nord was _in love_ with and the two of them had been together ever since.

Hákan liked to drink, to fight and to fuck and in Argis he had found someone with whom he could engage in all three activities.

xxxx

Of the thirty trainees five completed their education. Argis did not only pass the final tests, he exceeded at them. Over the years he had become somewhat of a celebrity and the name 'Argis the Bulwark' was famous throughout the hold of the Reach. When the festivities for the election of the Jarl's new húskarl began, the entire city of Markarth was in an uproar. People did not only enjoy the celebrations, they also cheered on their favourite competitors and took bets on who would be the Jarl's choice.

Only the Proving remained, a custom that served tradition far more than any purpose. The housecarls would take a few chosen soldiers and lead them against the Jarl's enemies. Their targets had already been picked out. Two bandit camps, a band of robbers, the lair of a bear that had caused some trouble by killing livestock and a small group of Forsworn. The Jarl's scouts had located and observed them and the procedure was mainly to entertain the masses. The victors would return to Markarth, parade through the streets, offer Jarl Igmund their services and he would finally be able to name one of them his húskarl. Both Igmund and Karl had no doubt who would have the honour.

All trainees were capable, but only one was outstanding.

The person in question was altogether glad to be able to escape the fuss and spend a beautiful summer day outside Markarth's walls, enjoying the peace and quiet of the parks surrounding the city. It was hard to believe that once a battle had raged in this valley. After the Forsworn Uprising Markarth had prospered, and the Jarl had ordered the green area built as a sign of the city's wealth, because there was no space inside the city of stone for that sort of thing. Mostly the park consisted of a hedge, lots of grass, some trees and a few flowerbeds. And what must have been the least comfortable stone benches in all of Tamriel.

None of that mattered to Hákan, who was lying stretched out on his back, while Argis used his lover as a backrest, whilst eating his lunch that he had brought with him. From time to time Hákan nicked some food from Argis. He was risking a fist to the face, the Divines knew Argis guarded his meals more closely than a starving wolf, but what fun was the game without a little risk?

Argis finished eating, brushed off the crumbs and tackled Hákan, starting a wrestling match that had them laughing and swearing at each other. It was all in good fun and Hákan let it go on for a while before he put his greater weight and strength to use, pinning his lover to the ground. Argis huffed in mock annoyance, but there was no force behind it. He had started their tussle after all and he knew well that when it came to unarmed combat, be it brawling or wrestling, he did not stand a chance against Hákan. No one did.

Hákan grinned down at his captive, before leaning down and kissing Argis languidly, who responded with a happy hum when the full, warm weight of his lover settled over him. He let their kiss deepen, his hands trailing down Hákan's chest, its plains hard and defined even through the soft fabric of the shirt, to Hákan's hips and beyond, kneading the muscles suggestively and eliciting a groan from the man above him. Then, without a warning Argis dug his fingers in the bigger man's sides.

Hákan was off him in the blink of an eye, casting Argis a wounded look. "That's not very nice." He wagged his finger at Argis' face, adding "Tickling's not fair."

Argis could see the physical effect their closeness had on his lover, but if he allowed it to continue, they'd end up rutting in the park like two animals in heat. Not exactly appropriate behaviour for a man in the position he was aiming at. So he tried to slow his breathing and not show how very affected he was himself, taking his time to stretch out in the grass and to grin up at Hákan, though his smile did not stay long before it faded slowly, leaving behind a frown as Argis continued staring up into the endless blue of the sky.

Hákan had been dealing with Argis' mood for the past days, trying to cheer him up by distracting him from his doubts. With sex, usually. Which was more or less out of the question here in the open, not that they would have let propriety stop them a year ago. But húskarl to the Jarl was going to change his lover, it already had, and Hákan was not sure if it was for the better. Oh, Argis was as respected as ever, but strangely his fame and the promise of a new position brought him little joy and a lot of unease.

He let himself plop down beside Argis, resting one hand on the other man's belly and shaking him slightly. "Oi, quit yar worrying already."

Argis' only reply was a rueful twitch of his lips. He had tried hard to keep up a cheerful facade, but Hákan knew him too well and had caught him brooding. He had been doing it a lot lately. This entire business with the selection and the festivities was wearing him out. Maybe he would be able to catch a break once all of it was over.

"A few more days and the Jarl's gonna choose, you, 'cause, who else is there? That dour toad Faleen?" Hákan snorted, the notion was just ridiculous. Poking Argis gently in the side he continued "I'll get you out and we'll get so drunk, we won't be able to walk straight for a week. How's that sound?"

Laughing out loud Argis shook his head. "It sounds great." He did not mention that once he was in the Jarl's service, he probably would no longer be able to go carousing at a whim. He was pulled out of thoughts when Hákan took his hands and tugged him into a sitting position.

"Here, I got something for you." Hákan reached into his pack for a wrapped bundle that Argis had noticed, but had not asked about. "For luck."

Argis unwrapped the cloth to reveal a beautiful dagger. The hilt was made from rosewood and it had grooves filled with braided wire for a secure grip. Argis did not test the edge. He knew it would be razor sharp.

Hákan watched Argis admire the blade and try out its grip with a gentle smile. It was not the gift he wanted to give his lover, but so far he had found neither the courage nor the proper time to follow his heart's desire. For four years Argis and him had been a couple, which was an unusually long time to be together without any commitment and Hákan firmly believed they belonged together, after all, fate had let them towards each other all those years ago on the battlefield. The amulet was a familiar weight in his pocket. He carried it with him at all times, though he had never put it on. He had not been contemplating married life for long, but lately he felt that maybe he was ready to settle down with the one person he loved. All he had to do was take the amulet and propose. So far, the only thing standing in his way was Argis himself. Or rather, his ambition. Hákan knew Argis would not find any peace, not until he succeed in what he was striving for. He admired his lover's strength of purpose, but Hákan nevertheless looked forward to a time when there would not be just another accomplishment standing between the two of them.

"It's beautiful." Argis beamed at him and leaned in to brush his lips tenderly against Hákan's. "But you did not have to get me anything. After all, I'm going to have you with me, what more could I want?"

Hákan did not hesitate. "I can think of something", he said huskily.

They left shortly after, heading back home and making the most of the afternoon and the night.

xxxx

Argis set out with a group of ten soldiers plus Hákan and Thurek, who was no soldier and in Argis' opinion far too young to accompany them, but would trail after Hákan anyway, who was like a father to the boy. Hákan had a habit of picking up strays, be they human or animal, like the alley cat he had brought home once.

Their destination was the group of Forsworn, who had settled down in some ruins too close to Markarth. It would take them three days to get there and so they took two horses to carry supplies for the men. They had received reports from the Jar's scouts and knew exactly about their target's position and strength. The night before the planned attack their camp was dark and silent, so as not to alert their enemy to their presence. They would attack at dawn, when hopefully the Forsworn would be still asleep. If not, the soldiers still had the advantage of the sun rising behind them, blinding their foes.

In the morning Hákan helped Argis secure the last buckles on the back, before turning his lover around, pulling him close and resting their brows together. It was almost a rite, a few seconds that belonged only to themselves; to forget about the others and the oncoming fight. They stepped back as one and Argis mustered Hákan, who was habitually clad only in his pants and blue warpaint, as he claimed he did not like getting his clothes bloody. Armed with two axes he looked just like the barbarian he was, right down to his braided hair, which was immaculate. He must have gotten up extra early to get it right, a fact that amused Argis no end.

Stepping out of their tent, Argis assumed his role as commander, the burden of responsibility a familiar weight on his shoulders. He split the men in half and Hákan's and his own group would attack from different sides, working their way towards each other. Thurek, too young and inexperienced to join the fight would remain behind and guard their camp. Not that it needed protection; that was just Hákan's way of keeping the boy out of trouble.

"All right, let's get this over with", Argis muttered to Rolfrik, his second in command, and waved at the remaining four men to follow him.

Hákan's group moved off in the other direction, the big Nord looking over his shoulder, laughing as tossed back at Argis "I'll leave some Forsworn for you to fight! If you hurry up!"

They crept up to the camp unnoticed, after Rolfrik had taken out a lonely sentry with one precise shot.

The fight went as planned. They had managed to surprise the Forsworn and were currently driving the last of them towards the middle of the camp, where a crumbling watchtower stood. Argis saw Hákan leading his soldiers not far away, engaged in a similar way. That was when a thunderous explosion shook the camp, taking out two or three of Hákan's men. An explosion like this could only come from magic.

There had been no mention of a briarheart in the scout's reports. The appearance of the spellcaster presented a problem; they had nobody to counter the magic attacks. "Where did they get a briarheart from?" Argis heard one of the soldiers cry out.

The answer to the question lurked in the tower, but Argis never saw the hagraven step out of the decrepit building. Hákan did. He charged the monstrous witch, burying one of his axes in her neck, but not in time. Whatever foul spell she had cast, it sent Argis flying through the air. He smashed into some rocks and slid to the ground, where he lay unmoving in a broken heap, like a puppet whose stings had been cut.

"Argis!", Hákan yelled, but he could not look after his lover just yet, because there were still Forsworn inside the tower. With a bellow of rage, Hákan stormed into their midst.

Seeing the hagraven fall, the briarheart watched the great warrior storm the tower, his axes wreaking havoc amongst his enemies. The Nord was a fearsome opponent, one who had claimed many lives already. The briarheart gauged his options and with a shrug he began casting.

Argis was consumed by pain. From where he was lying on the ground, the left side of his face pressed into the dirt, he could barely make out Hákan, the warrior's blonde hair glowing golden in the rising sum like a halo. He put down the hagraven and entered the watchtower, disappearing from Argis' fading sight.

Moments later a huge ball of fire hit the tower, exploding within and toppling the already crumbling structure.

Argis' heart stopped. No, this could not be happening. Please, Talos, let it be just a hallucination of his. "NO!", he heard himself shouting, his frantic pulse a hum in his ears. "Nooo! HÁKAN!"

He tried to get up, but the effort sent a spike of such agony through his body, his vision blacked out completely. He continued to scream even though it hurt, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the anguish of his soul. His chest felt like somebody had plunged a red-hot knife through it and was slowly twisting it around, ripping out his heart in the process. Argis kept calling after his lover, until his breath stuttered and finally, with one last tormented cry it faltered.

Rolfrik drew his last arrow and with a deep breath he nocked it, risking a glance at the briarheart from his hiding place. He sent a short prayer to Talos, drew his bow and stepped out from cover. His aim was true and the arrow punched straight through the chest of the briarheart, extinguishing the glow that emanated from the spellcaster and putting a stop to the man's deadly volley of magic.

With the briarheart dead the fighting was over. He had sacrificed the last of is kinsman in order to deal a crucial blow to the attackers. Of their own men, Rolfrik saw that two were still standing and both looked hurt, though not fatally. He had seen Argis hit by a blinding white flash and watched in horror as the fireball caused the tower to collapse on itself seconds later, burying everybody inside.

He could mourn the dead later, for now his concern was for the living. With a sinking heart Rolfrik made his way over to where he had seen his commander fall.

There were voices, but Argis' ears were ringing and when he opened his eyes his vision swam in and out of focus. It seemed some people were arguing nearby.

"...if his back's broke..", Argis heard one of the soldiers say and a cold dread gripped him. Oh gods, please no. He could face death, but being crippled for the rest of his life, never to walk again was just too much.

"It's not just his back I'm worried about, it's his head", another voice cut in. Rolfrik, Argis' mind supplied. "We need to turn him around, but carefully. On three!"

Argis must have fainted when they moved him, because when next he opened his eyes, he was lying on his back and there were four faces looking down on him. Just four. Rolfrik, Lars, Fjol and Thurek. Where were the others? Where was Hákan?

He tried to move, to look around, but Rolfrik restrained him. "Don't move", the veteran commanded him, not unkindly. He uncorked a red bottle, a healing potion Argis realized, and knelt next to Argis, telling him calmly to drink.

Argis did not understand. His lover would never leave him alone when he was hurt. He was still gazing around, trying to catch a glimpse of the familiar smile, of a strand of light blonde hair. "Hákan", he ground out. "Where's Hákan?"

Confused as he was, Argis did not miss Rolfrik twitch. Instead of answering the veteran propped the bottle against Argis' lips, repeating his former request. "Drink."

Argis lifted his hand to ward off the man when his eyes lit on a pile of rubble not far from where he was lying. Fjol moved to block his line of sight, but it had been enough to bring the memories back.

The hagraven. Hákan fighting Forsworn in the tower. A fiery flash of light and stones falling. Grief washed over Argis and he felt tears well in his eyes and sobs wracked his damaged body.

Once again he had failed, not able to protect the one thing, the one _person_ who meant more to him than life itself. He did not want to go on. A life without Hákan's smiles and his laughter was dark and dreary and not something Argis wanted to endure. Death would be preferable.

With a desperate strength Argis gripped Rolfrik's wrist. "Please", he wheezed out. "Please let me go. Let me go to Sovngarde." He was imploring the man with tear filled eyes, hoping his friend would understand.

Rolfrik looked at the man who was his friend and commander. They would all mourn Hákan's loss, the big, cheerful warrior had been well-liked by all. Argis though looked devastated. Their relationship had been no secret and for one moment Rolfrik considered to give in to Argis' request, thinking that it might be kinder to let him slip away to the afterlife and the Hall of Valor, where he would be united with his beloved one.

"I'm sorry, my friend", the veteran said softly, before turning to the remaining soldiers. "Hold him down."

Argis tried to fight them off, but he had little strength left and when Rolfrik held his nose closed, it was a choice between drinking the potion and passing out from lack of air. He almost did, but instinct overrode his will and he was forced to gulp down the entire contents of the bottle. The pressure of hands lifted off his body and Argis was left coughing and feeling betrayed. He was aware of the potion healing his body, but no amount of magic would be able to erase his sorrow.

Rolfrik watched the healing process avidly. Apart from the left side of his face, where the magic had struck, Argis had little visible wounds, but he must have sustained heavy internal damage after crashing into the rocks as he had done. The most grievous injury was to his head, a long cut that bled profusely and, if Rolfrik had guessed correctly, a fractured skull. Evidence of severe head trauma was visible, as Argis' left eye had slowly filled with blood, his pupils dilated and uneven in size.

There was a light glow around Argis as the magic mended wounds that would normally take weeks to heal on their own, within minutes. The blood drained from Argis' left eye, but it was left forever milky and unseeing; some damage could not even be repaired by magic.

Despite the healing process leaving him drained, Argis staggered upright. His walk was unsteady, but he was determined to reach the remains of the tower, a mould made from what must have been several tons of stone.

"Hákan!" Argis roared. There was no answer.

Argis attempted to shove a boulder away, but it would not budge. He tried another one, continued digging until his hands were cut open and his nails cracked and bloody, calling out for his lover from time to time, fervently listening for an answer.

It was in vain. Giving up hope at last, Argis let himself collapse next to the heap of ruins. It was an apt description for what his life had become during the course of one day. He remained on the ground, sobbing, until Rolfrik came to pick him up. "We must get away. The sun will set early with the mountains all around us and then predators will come."

Argis let himself be dragged off; he had no strength left to resist. His initial anger at Rolfrik had turned to a feeling of helplessness and finally, apathy. Rolfrik had taken over the command for the moment, leading the few survivors back, towards Markarth. They did not go far though, late as the day already was.

When they set up camp for the night, at least the soldiers turned away to give Argis some semblance of privacy as he wept. He was not the only one. They all could hear Thurek's sniffles throughout the night.

The Divines must have abandoned them and their cause entirely, because the next day Argis saw a bulky shadow trailing after them. Why it targeted them when they had left behind a field of corpses just a few miles away they did not know. It was either young and inexperienced or starving and desperate. A group of five was tough prey, but they were vulnerable due to exhaustion. The healing potions took their toll on the body, sustained as they were by the energy of the one who drank the magical concoction.

In any case they built up the fire in the night and kept a close watch. The sabrecat struck in the wee hours of the morning.

Like an arrow the beast shot out of the underground, leaping at the unlucky Fjol, its powerful hind legs and sharp claws disembowelling its victim. The man's agonized shrieks woke Argis up. Dazed, he clumsily reached for his sword and shield.

Of their group, Thurek was the fastest to react. He picked up the oil carafe and tossed into the flames. With a low _thump_ the fire flared up, bigger than men-height and a wave of heat passed over them.

The sabrecat let out a frightened yowl and let off Fjol, but instead of fleeing it went into a frenzy, ears flattened against its skull, it was spitting and hissing at the soldiers. The cat must have been ravenous to brave such opposition.

Argis had no warning as the great predator suddenly lunged at him. He smashed his shield into the cat's face, breaking one of its front teeth, but momentum carried it onwards, knocking Argis flat on his back. Argis felt pain flash across his left cheek, before the sabrecat's front claws found purchase in Argis' chest, cutting deep and if he did not react quickly, his fate would be the same as Fjol's. The impact stunned the warrior and he dropped his sword, but while he fell his hand had grazed something he had forgotten.

For one moment Argis believed he could feel the warmth of sunshine upon his face and he clearly heard Hákan's deep voice._ "For luck". _

Snarling himself, Argis pulled the dagger and stabbed into the sabrecat's throat and, when the beast jerked violently, again, into its eye-socket. The cat had one final spasm, before it fell over and its claws were ripped out of Argis' chest, leaving behind deep gouges. Argis coughed and felt the salty taste of blood fill his mouth.

As suddenly as the fight had begun, it was over again. Somebody was screaming, a high piercing sound, that was cut off abruptly and when Argis turned his head he saw Rolfrik pulling his blade from Fjol's chest, putting a swift end to the man's suffering.

Rolfrik cursed vehemently. Had not enough misfortune befallen them already? Argis was down, again. It seemed there was no end to the man's ill luck.

"Do we have another healing potion?", Lars asked the veteran.

Rolfrik shook his head. "No. We only had three." Lars and Fjol had drunk the other two.

Judging by the rasp in Argis' breath, the man's lung might have sustained injury. He would not be going anywhere.

"Tie the horses together and put two poles between them, shoulders and rear. We'll take our blankets and make a stretcher", Rolfrik ordered. "I will sort through our things; we will leave behind everything that can be spared. We set out immediately." There was a short bustle of activity and then, after treating Argis' wounds, Lars and Rolfrik heaved the injured Nord upon their makeshift stretcher between the two horses. The animals looked unhappy with their new burden.

Rolfrik kept their little group walking through the day, not allowing them any rest until evening. By then Argis was alternately shivering and sweating. When Rolfrik checked on him, his skin was hot to the touch and it felt clammy.

"This ain't right."

Rolfrik knew that the sabrecat's claws had been filthy, but for an infection to set in so quickly? True, Argis' body was weakened, but his state was beyond normal.

The veteran boiled some water to wash the wounds once again. When he unwrapped the bandages, one gash in particular looked inflamed. It was an angry red and light pressure caused the wound to weep pus and a milky coloured liquid. Rolfrik leaned closer, and in the last rays of the setting he saw something whitish distorting the wound.

"Holy Talos!" Rolfrik's eyes grew wide. With the help of his hunting knife he pulled a three inch long claw from Argis' chest. It was a small mercy that Argis was no longer conscious by then. Time was running out. Staring at the find, the soldier pocketed the claw, turning to Lars and Thurek, who sat on the ground slumped with exhaustion. "We go on."

At noon of the second day the city of Markarth came into view. Instead of a parade, their entry resembled a funeral procession. In a way, it was.

A traumatized, half-blind warrior whose recuperation was not a thing of certainty was not fit to be the Jarl's bodyguard. Igmund chose Faleen as his housecarl, but plagued by his conscience the Jarl took pity on Argis and appointed him húskarl – to Vlindrel Hall.

A meaningless title, as empty as the gaping hole in Argis' chest, where his heart had been.

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**AN**: This was very difficult and pretty painful and to write.


	8. Chapter 8

Hello, OpalBee. I'm glad to hear you liked the previous chapter and I hope you will stay with me through this story =)

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'Housecarl to Vlindrel Hall, as if a house needed protection', Argis thought bitterly as he stared up at the stone ceiling of the healer's houses located in a side wing of the Temple of Dibella. The Jarl had visited him personally, probably to alleviate his conscience. After all, it had been the Jarl's scouts and their faulty reports that were responsible for the clusterfuck his mission had become. If Argis ever found out the men's names, he would tear those bloody bastards limb from limb.

Others had come by to offer their sympathies and condolences. Argis wished they would shut the fuck up and leave him be. The last thing he wanted was to be repeatedly reminded of what he had lost.

He had awoken two days ago and though he had been drugged against the pain Argis had nonetheless noticed that something was wrong. At first he could not pinpoint it. Blinking his eyes, it slowly dawned on him that he could not see out of his left eye. Argis tried to fight the rising panic, closing his eyes again. When he had heard the soft whisper of a priest's moccasins on the Temple's stone tiles, he spoke up for the first time.

"There's something wrong with my eye", he rasped out, hoping against hope that the healers had overlooked his injury or maybe postponed its treatment for reasons unknown.

The priestess however did not respond at first, twiddling her skirts instead, but the lack of a reply was an answer in itself. Argis' breath stuttered and he clenched his jaw to stop his teeth from chattering. Damn it, he would not lose his composure like a milk-drinking recruit.

"I'm sorry...", the woman began.

"Leave me", Argis interrupted her brusquely.

She lingered for a moment longer, before finally turning to leave, her soft footsteps dwindling as she retreated. Argis tossed an arm across his face and breathed hard through the threatening tears. He was a warrior who lived with the risk of being injured every day. He would _not_ grieve the loss of an eye, for compared to what he had lost, his maiming was insignificant. Hell, he would throw his right arm into the count to get Hákan back.

As it was, Argis would get neither his lover back, nor his eyesight. The healers had worked hard to purge the infection from his body and to restore his health. Argis did not know it, but he had come close to dying and the healer's entire focus had been on keeping him alive.

Four days after he woke up and a week since he was brought to the Temple, Argis was proclaimed strong enough to leave the infirmary. He stepped out of the cool, dusky interior of the Temple, shielding his face against the blinding sunlight. It was a beautiful day; the sun was shining brightly from a cloudless sky and the warm air was stirred by a light breeze. Strange, how life went on, that the world continued, oblivious to the passing of those living upon her. Somehow, Argis had expected things to have changed, for the skies to be darkened with heavy clouds and thunder, to match his own sorrow. As he stood on the threshold it slowly downed on him that he had no idea what he was supposed to do now.

So he slowly made his way back to his home, taking narrow alleyways that were seldom traversed and avoiding the busier areas and streets of the city. Markarth's stairs took a toll on Argis' weakened body and he had to pause frequently in order to catch his breath and to wait for the stabbing pain in his chest to diminish to a dull ache.

The first time Argis had been grievously wounded by a javelin the priests had merely patched him up and ensured his survival. He had been nobody back then. Now, at the Jarl's behest they had spared no efforts to make certain that he would carry no lingering damage, except for what was irreversible.

Argis should be grateful. He wasn't, wishing they had left him to die.

At last he halted in front of the solid, oaken doors of his hone, but he could not quite bring himself to go inside. Argis sunk down on the stone bench that stood in front of the house, supporting his elbows on his knees, his hands dangling uselessly between his thighs and his gaze unfocused and vacant.

A muffled thump next to him made Argis look up. A grey tabby stood before him, looking up expectantly. It was Prowl, Hákan's cat, which meowed at Argis until he bent down and picked her up, placing the cat in his lap, from where she immediately jumped up to bump her head against his jaw. Argis sat there, stroking the cat's soft fur mechanically and listening to her happy purrs, until when next he looked up the sun had wandered a good deal across the sky. With a sigh he sat Prowl down; she lived in the streets, but she had a box and a food bowl they kept full.

Argis winced. There was no 'them', not anymore.

With something akin to dread he unlocked the front door, opening it wide to allow some light into the house's dim interior. Markarth's houses were usually made entirely of stone and few had even shuttered windows. As a consequence it was dark inside, but on the upside the interior was pleasantly cool in summer and warm in winter when the thick walls kept the warmth in. If people did not want to sit in the darkness or waste candles they simply left the doors ajar, as Argis did now.

He entered the tiny kitchen with its cold hearth, walked through what passed for a living room until he came to a stop in front of the alcove with its double bed. The sheets would still smell of Hákan and of sex and Argis wanted nothing more than to fall into the bed, although if he allowed himself to, he might not find the strength to get up once more. Instead he turned away, towards the nightstand where a small rectangular piece of polished metal served as a looking glass. Argis picked it up and with a thudding heart he looked at his reflection. Much to his surprise his left eye was not gone, but milky in colour though very much still there. He had not dared to touch his face and find out before.

His left cheek bore two long, straight cuts which were scabbed over, the skin tight around them. One started directly below his now useless eye and a third, much smaller one cut across his lips, close to the corner of his mouth. It wasn't that bad. Argis had been holding his breath which he now let out shakily, putting the looking glass back and looking around.

Every corner of his home, every nook and piece of furniture awoke memories. On a worktable in front of the fireplace a pair of unfinished vambraces lay. Argis had been making these for Hákan, who somehow always managed to wreck his. He picked them up, running his fingers over the supple leather. They had spent many an evening here, mending their armour and talking, or just working together in companionable silence. Argis tossed his piece of work back down on the table. When they landed with a clatter, he thought he could hear and feel his heart break.

Here, where Hákan's presence was practically tangible, Argis knew he would find no peace. Before the day was out he had sold his home and moved what little furniture and personal effects he had decided to keep to Vlindrel Hall. He invested all his savings and bought a part of Vlindrel Hall from Raerek who handed Argis over the keys.

Vlindrell Hall was huge - Argis' previous house would have fit into the kitchen alone - and empty. Argis' footsteps echoed loudly through the empty manor and the darkness that lingered in the corners and was too thick for the stuttering flame of his candle to chase away seemed foreboding. The emptiness made Argis weary and he was glad to lie down on his new bed and to slip under some furs. He had claimed a room on the right hand side as his own. The sputtering candle flame kept Argis company, until close to midnight it guttered out.

Tired as he was, Argis had no difficulties falling asleep. It was the dreams that tormented him which made him choose wakefulness over sleep on the nights that followed. Argis did not know which ones were worse, those in which he repeatedly watched Hákan being buried under a cascade of stone, unable to help, or those in which his lover was still alive, laughing heartfelt and assuring Argis that he was alright. From the first he awoke screaming, but the second seemed so real, they threatened to rob him of his sanity. Argis started to drink to escape his dreams and get a nights rest.

He continued out of habit and because passing out drunk was better than listening to the ugly thoughts in his head. Rolfrik had banned him from the training grounds until he had regained his strength, so there was nothing for Argis to do, nothing to keep him busy. Lars had visited frequently and Argis was torn between wanting to be alone and being glad there was somebody to distract him from the swamp of depression he was in danger of drowning in.

His friend told him that a troop of soldiers had been sent out to collect the bodies of their eight fallen comrades – or what remained of them. They had not found Hákan's body, even though the boulders had shifted, the tower collapsing further unto itself, allowing the men to search inside. The funeral rites had been held while Argis was unconscious in the Temple of Dibella. Every soldier Argis had taken with him had been a close friend. Now he visited their graves in the Hall of the Dead, though Argis felt too drained and too tired to mourn them properly, leaving only the customary offerings on the marble altar. The dead did not need worldly possessions. They were at peace.

One other thing was giving Argis trouble. Blind on one eye he was losing his depth perception. It was not something that happened at once, but a gradual process and all the more bothersome for it. When after two weeks Argis was allowed back into the training ring, it was only to find out that he, who had been Markarth's best fighter, could no longer could his own against even an average swordsman. His body knew all the moves and he had no difficulties to read his opponent's eyes; their attacks he could anticipate with ease. However, the real problem was that once he got into close combat, he no longer could gauge distances. Between twenty and two feet Argis could see little to no difference.

To add insult to injury his field of vision was reduced, making it easy to outmanoeuvre him by striking at his blind side. The fact that after just a few minutes of fighting Argis was badly winded did not help either.

xxxx

For the umpteenth time Argis picked up his training sword after his training partner had managed to knock it out of his hand. Argis had been sure this time he would be able to block the attack, but he had misjudged the distance once again and missed his opponent who took his chance to disarm him. The pain in his chest had started again, but Argis was stubbornly ignoring it.

"Again!", he barked at the man opposite him.

Lars watched the confrontation with apprehension. Argis had lost every bout so far. Two months and the housecarl showed no indication of getting better. One thing had to be said about Argis: he was stubborn. He never complained, just picked his sword up and had another go; the only outward sign of his frustration was that his face bore all the cheerfulness of a thunderstorm. He sounded perfectly calm however as he took his place in the ring once more. The two fighters circled each other carefully, Argis shaking his head like an angry bull from time to time, as if that would clear his vision and help him see better. Much like before, his training partner went for Argis' blind side. Something changed in Argis posture, a barely noticeable difference betrayed by the glint in his eye. _Shit._ Before he knew what exactly happened, Lars was up and sprinting towards the combatants.

Argis felt something snap inside him when he saw the blade striking at his vulnerable side once more. He was fed up with his injury, with his incapability to defend himself, to fight. The one thing he had actually excelled at and now it had been taken from him. He felt like a bumbling recruit again.

And he was angry. With the Forsworn who had killed his lover. With Hákan, who had gotten himself blown up. With himself and his weakness, his failures. And with all those spectators who looked at him with pity, whose fingers he saw pointing at him when they thought he was not looking and their whispers, snatches of which carried to him on the wind.

For once not taking the defensive stance, Argis went all out, allowing the battle madness to take over. He ran straight at his opponent, surprise and his greater weight doing the job, breaking through the other man's guard. He got a two handed grip on his sword and swung it, putting all his strength into the blow. That might have just been the last of the soldier, if Lars had not tackled Argis, slapping his arm away and fouling the strike. Argis' blade soared harmlessly past the stunned man.

"Damn it, Argis! Ya tryin' to kill him?", Lars cried, tightening his grip on Argis' armour and giving the man a good shake. Argis glowered down on him and for a moment Lars thought that his friend might turn on him, but then Argis seemed to deflate, dropping his sword and running a hand over his face.

"Shit!", the big Nord cursed and a kick sent his blade sailing through the air.

Lars could not begin to imagine the frustration Argis must be feeling, he had always just been a simple soldier. Nonetheless he tried to encourage the warrior.

"Remember the time when Rolf broke his arm? He couldn't draw his bow for a year. And now he's one of our best archers. You will get better again in time."

"How am I supposed to get better if I can't see?", Argis replied.

Lars had never heard his friend sound so defeated and he did not know the answer to Argis' question, so instead he asked one of his own. "Are you all right?"

"Do I fucking look like I'm all right?", Argis spat back. He felt sorry for snapping at his friend as soon as the words left his mouth.

"You look like hell", Lars answered silently, his tone sincere. He was concerned for his friend. It had been two months and Argis' iron self control had not slipped once, not until today when Lars was quite sure he had been about to bash his training partner's brains in. That was Argis. Lars was pretty sure it was not healthy, bottling up your feelings like that. Hákan had known how to deal with it, one word from him, one small gesture and he could make anyone smile. He had been good with people like that, something that Lars was not.

"Are you getting any rest?"

The wry twitch of Argis' lips told Lars he had hit close to home.

Lars was at wit's end. He could not help the man with his grief or his injury, but Argis did not have to face it all on his own. When Lars put a hand on his friends' shoulder, the big warrior flinched away from his touch.

Sympathy would get Lars nowhere, he knew his friend well enough.

"Pick up yar sorry arse and move on." It was true and well meant, although somewhat coarse.

"That's what I've been trying to do."

They stood there in uncomfortable silence until Argis went back to gather his sword from where he had kicked it.

"Again."

xxxx

Jarl Igmund watched Markarth's prized warrior struggle hard not to waste away. Maybe what the man needed was a distraction, something to occupy him; a task. Igmund had Argis summoned before him.

The Nord warrior looked terrible, face haggard, eyes bloodshot with circles under his eyes so dark it looked like he had two black eyes. His armour was immaculate, however and his salute brisk.

"Ah, Argis I am glad to see you have recovered from your injuries. I was sorry to hear of your loss."

"Thank you, my Jarl", Argis spoke to his sovereign. He did not glance in Faleen's direction even once, treating the Jarl's housecarl as if she was air. She was a thorn in his side and he decided to deal with her as he did all pain: with stoic indifference. The man to Igmund's left Argis could not remember seeing before. Then again, he had paid little heed to the nobles and their court, caught up as he had been in his training.

Jarl Igmund decided not to comment on Arigs' cool tone. Instead he announced the reason why he had called for the man.

"I have decided it is time for you to do what you were trained to. I name you housecarl to Bjorn of Solitude, Thane of Markarth."

Bjorn was Nord by birth, though Imperial by choice; he wholeheartedly considered himself to be a citizen of the civilized and cosmopolitan Empire. Being the second son of a noble family from Solitude he had few obligations and too much time on his hands and therefore he grew bored, deciding to take up adventuring as a pastime. A dalliance with the wrong nobleman's daughter had him leaving the city of his birth, but luck, a political coup and an outrageous amount of money got him the position of Thane of Markarth.

He was of middle height, had green eyes, brown hair that he kept slicked back and a small patch of beard on his chin. 'Like a goat' Argis' mind supplied. Apparently the women liked it if Bjorn's reputation was to be believed. Why, Argis could not fathom, but then he had little experience with the fair sex. Worst of all, his new Thane smelled like a lavender field, which had Argis sneezing violently. All in all, Argis was not impressed with his new charge. Evidently the feeling was mutual.

Nonetheless there was a spring in the Thane's step as he approached Argis, bowing his head slightly in greeting. "Good day to you, sirrah. I was told you were to be my manservant?"

Argis' jaw nearly hit the ground. That man was either ignorant or insolent beyond measure. "I'm nobody's _servant_", the warrior ground out.

Bjorn's face fell somewhat, his smile becoming strained, realizing he had just made a big mistake.

"Err...It seems we got off on the wrong foot. Let me make amends and introduce myself. I am Bjorn, son of Erikur, from bright and beautiful Solitude, home to bards, poets and fair maidens." That said he turned his attention back to his housecarl, who suddenly felt very uncomfortable.

"I'm Argis."

"Oh my, I see your eloquence knows no bounds", Bjorn joked lightly, trying to break the ice. Win Argis over with humour. "I have attended the Bards College, of course", he continued, completely oblivious that his attempts at small talk fell on deaf ears.

"I guess one has a lot of free time if you don't have to work," Argis muttered darkly.

"Well, yes." Bjorn's face lit up. Maybe they would get along all right if they found some common ground. "And I wouldn't want to dirty my hands with common labour." Being a warrior was better than being a peasant, right? What had the Jarl said? Housecarl. The man must be proud to be swinging a sword instead of a shovel.

Argis did not reply this time.

xxxx

It went from bad to worse. The Jarl sent Bjorn on many errands and as his housecarl, it was Argis' duty to accompany his Thane. The first time they set out Bjorn looked worriedly at the man at his side. The Nord looked to be dead on his feet. On the night before the planned attack on a robber's hideout Argis' Thane spoke up.

"Why don't you take some rest?"

Like he was an invalid. A cripple, not good enough to do his duty. He was good enough to cook, though, to listen to his Thane talk and to carry a shitload of junk, like he was some bloody pack-mule. Argis could feel the other soldiers casting covert glances his way. But he was not good enough to fight. Thus, Argis was banned from participating in the battle, tending to the camp instead. It was his fault, too. Bjorn had seen him in the training ring and commented on it. _How did one fight without one eye? Wasn't it terribly cumbersome? Had_ _the Jarl not said Argis was Markarth's most skilled warrior? He wasn't that good. _

What hurt most was that it was true. When Bjorn opened his mouth once more, no doubt to spew another disparaging remark, Argis had snapped. "I was merely thinking...", Bjorn began.

Argis did not let him finish. "Don't think. It doesn't suit you."

Bjorn stood there, dumbfounded. _Nords_. Couldn't they behave like civilized people? Here, everything was so different from Solitude, how was he to know what to do or say?" Not that Bjorn ever bothered to find out.

Argis was sure his enforced 'resting' was retribution for that incident.

After another successful mission they returned to Markarth in stony silence. All this business about being a Thane was rather stressful and Bjorn decided to find himself some pretty lass to help him relax. As he was wont to do.

Argis' room had no door and Argis did not want to listen to the man fuck his way through the town's sluts every night. As if sleeping wasn't difficult enough. He hit the bottle hard.

In the morning Argis' hangover put him in a foul mood. Bjorn on the other hand was obnoxiously cheerful, chattering ceaselessly. He suddenly noticed his housecarl's grumpy manner.

"What is it, Argis? Why so grumpy this morning?"

Argis looked up. He had fallen asleep shortly before dawn and gotten up only a couple of hours later. Politeness was quite beyond him at that point. "You could take your wenching somewhere else."

"Excuse me?", Bjorn's voice rose in indignation. How _rude_.

"I live here. And I'm trying to get some sleep", Argis replied.

"Well, you could live somewhere else", Bjorn threw back.

"Fuck, no." Argis liked Vlindrel Hall just fine. Especially now that Bjorn had spent a fortune on its furnishings. The man had good taste in home decorations; Argis had to give him that. It was his only positive quality that Argis could think of straightaway.

Jarl Igmund was in danger of ripping out the last of his hair. Thane Bjorn had petitioned him this morning to have his housecarl move out of his manor. Trouble was, it was Argis' house, too. And removing ones housecarl entirely went against the purpose of having one in first place. What a headache. Both men stood before the throne, Argis cross-armed and silent, his Thane arguing his point and flailing his arms around ridiculously.

The only thing Argis said when asked why he was not willing to move out was "It's my house, too."

Jarl Igmund tried to find some middle ground. Turning to Argis he spoke "You had a home. Raerek tells me it is still available, maybe you could consider it?"

"No." The answer was curt and final.

Arguing the matter would not change the warrior's mind. Whatever had possessed the Jarl to assign Argis to Bjorn, Igmund was already regretting his decision. The men had nothing in common, Argis was as Nord as one could be; Bjorn on the other hand was all but Imperial with little regard for his homeland's values and traditions. It was a disaster about to happen. Igmund would have kicked his own ass, were it anatomically possible. Taking a deep breath, he prepared for the protests he would have to put up with when he announced his decision.

Bjorn was _not_ sulking. Behaviour like that was beneath him. He was however, in a very bad mood and terribly disappointed with his Jarl, who had taken Argis' side. The housecarl had paid for the house – much less than Bjorn, mind you - but Igmund had declared nonetheless that he had the right to live in Vlindrel Hall until he renounced it willingly. Bjorn could not understand how the man could arrive at such a decision. Probably because the Jarl's judgement was impaired by all that honour nonsense. In _Solitude_ some money would have changed hands and Bjorn would have gotten what he wanted. Here, in Markarth the Jarl only glowered down at the Thane, asking him in a low, dangerous voice if he thought the Jarl could be bought off.

And Argis. The man was a mystery. Bjorn had never encountered a more insubordinate and foul tempered servant. He had been nothing, but nice to the warrior. He let him rest anytime, because it was so very obvious how hard he was struggling. He had even proposed for Argis to stay at home and take care of a few minor tasks, to take it easy and relax. Did he get any gratitude? NO! Bjorn tried to engross Argis in conversation; he had even offered to buy the man a house when it became clear he was arguing a lost cause! Argis had absolutely no manners, he drank, cursed and lived by that effing Nord code that Bjorn could not even begin to understand.

Bjorn sighed. He should not frown, it would give him wrinkles. Tonight there was a party, one the Silver-Bloods were hosting. Bjorn could not be absent from an event of such political and social importance. Fêtes such as this one were his favourite pastime. They offered him the possibility to socialize and engage in polite conversation with cultured and educated men and ladies. People on whom his charm and wit did not roll off like water off a duck's back. Bjorn was delighted by the Silver-Blood manor, the tasteful decorations and little delicacies that were served on polished silver trays. After a while of mingling the guests all seated themselves at the main table.

Bjorn's housecarl took up position behind him, silent and brooding. Bjorn would not let the man's bad mood spoil the evening for him. These events were meant to be _fun_.

There was food and wine and Bjorn might have imbibed somewhat too much in the latter. How could he not, when there were servants at every corner waiting to refill his glass once it was empty? Proper servants. The alcohol loosened his tongue and Bjorn soon found himself in his element, entertaining a group of admirers. He kept telling jokes and stories and he even forgot how annoyed he was with Argis. From time to time he even tried to get his housecarl to talk, asking him questions. It became somewhat of a game to Bjorn, trying to get the man to react somehow.

Argis usually answered those with "Yes, Thane", or "No, Thane." He did not care for the conversations of a pack of half-drunk sycophants who believed themselves to be better than everybody else, even those who's arse they were about to lick.

Bjorn was already deep in his cups. Man couldn't hold his liquor to get this drunk from sweet wines, Argis thought when one thing made him listen up.

"Argis, you should grab yourself some pretty lass. It might help you relax, wipe that morose look from your face, maybe even replace it with a smile? Seriously, if you are this dour, you will end up all alone. An empty bed is a cold one."

In the following silence that settled over the table the sound of Argis crushing his mug was clearly audible. One edge bit into his hand and his blood started to flow and drip off his fingers, the scarlet shocking against the bright white of the tablecloth.

He did not feel the pain. Above the roaring in his ears Argis could only think that if Bjorn had the bad taste to make fun of his deceased lover, he could have at least done it when Argis was not present. He turned away and without asking for permission, he left the party. If there was an assassin lurking amongst the guests, waiting to stab his Thane with a salad fork or strangle him with a doily, he was welcome to do so.

The cold night air that hit him was a welcome change from the warm, stuffy interior. It helped him cool down somewhat as he slowly made his way back to Vlindrel Hall where he roughly patched up his wounded hand. His Thane had done nothing but disrespect him and his position and now he had the gall to humiliate him. He was at best treated like a liability, a burden weighing Bjorn down, an incapable milk-drinker who could not pull his own weight. The Thane talked down to Argis with all his fancy words and he had the audacity to try to throw a housecarl from his own house! Argis knew then, that the rift between his Thane and himself could not be mended. Everything else he was willing to suffer, but that last remark had been the final straw. He could not forgive it.

Inside, Bjorn realised he had just made a mistake. Turning to the lady next to him, he put on his most charming smile. "What have I put my foot in, dear, would you explain to me?"

She was not swayed by his smile, as she would have been a moment ago. "That was the most tactless thing I have heard anybody say to his housecarl...ever! His lover was killed recently, in the Proving.

"Oh my, I did not know." Bjorn's regret was sincere. "When did it happen?"

"Not four months ago. And how could you not know? The man is your húskarl and you did not even bother to find out?! You, sirrah, are despicable."

Bjorn knew he had overstayed his welcome. He too left the party in far worse spirits than he had arrived in.

xxxx

They did not talk to each other again apart from when it absolutely could not be avoided. Bjorn had tried apologizing half a dozen times, all of which Argis ignored. Weeks passed and Argis kept up his training, trying to compensate for the loss of one eye by gaining experience. He was pleasantly surprised when found out that, unlike his swordsmanship, his archery skills had not suffered for the lack of an eye. Argis had never been much of an archer, but he valued those who were. For the first time in six months Argis approached Rolfrik. He had felt betrayed by his him, but that was one friendship Argis was not willing to give up. Rolfrik was surprised, but happy to help Argis improve his shooting skills.

Bjorn went back to his soirees and wenches. It still annoyed Argis no end that at night he had to listen to the wet slaps of flesh and the moaning. Bjorn could at least close the bloody door. Was that too much to ask for? Apparently it was. Well, two could play at this game. Argis calmly strapped on his armour, took up his shield and sword and with his most fierce war cry he stormed his Thane's bedroom.

The girl saw him first, screamed and scrambled up and away. She cast her lover an incredulous look, before collecting her clothes, dressing herself in record time and running – still barefoot – for the front door.

"Eiwen, come back!", Bjorn called after her, but Bjorn's girl only threw a precious vase at him, before inching carefully past Argis and making her escape.

Recovering from his shock, Bjorn turned a vivid scarlet. "What did you think you were doing!?", he demanded to know.

"Sorry, Thane. You screamed so loudly I thought you were being attacked.", Argis replied calmly.

The tale of Argis the very vigilant housecarl spread like wildfire and Bjorn's nightly exploits ended rather abruptly. Or maybe he ran out of women. Lars, Rolfrik and the other soldiers laughed their arses off. Argis had few reasons for merriment. The Jarl wanted his Thane to deal with two Giants that had been killing livestock and its owners. Bjorn probably thought he could take them on singlehandedly.

Argis knew better. "Have you ever fought a Giant?", he asked. He had. Just once and damn, that had been one hairy battle.

"I do not think a pair of simple minded brutes will give me much trouble", Bjorn remarked offhandedly. He inwardly complimented himself on the double meaning.

"There is a reason they're called _Giants_. They're huge, tough and darn hard to kill."

His Thane did not heed Argis' warning and his suggestion to bring with them as many archers as they could to bring the Giants down from a safe distance. Bjorn thought there was no glory in killing something from afar. Glory he had no intention to share with Argis, who was assigned to watch the camp once again.

"Argis, you stay here. We wouldn't want you to strain your abilities. Under no circumstances do I want you to interfere with my kills", the Thane ordered.

"Who the hell does he think he is?", a woman's voice said, once Bjorn was out of earshot.

"Careful, Sigrid. The man's still a Thane", Rolfrik reprimanded her.

"I don't care if he flails around with his pig-sticker or his fancy words. He ain't got no right to treat Argis like that."

The Giants were located a quarter day's march from their camp. When they set out, Bjorn's shoulders were tense; he did not look back. Rolfrik did. In the distance he saw a small figure trailing them.

Argis packed a small backpack, took his bow and set out after the main group. He'd be damned if he left his men to the command of his Thane. The soldiers were able to surprise the Giants, but the fight turned sour quite fast. The Giants were armed with huge, primitive but very effective clubs. Their reach was far greater than that of the humans and soon soldiers were forced to retreat, forming a half-circle around their enemies, but unable to approach. Rolfrik was the only archer, trying to get the Giant's attention by riddling them with arrows. It turned out to be a slow, but effective method. Maddened with pain the Giants soon started attacking at random. Behind them the soldiers swooped in to cut at their legs and bring them down.

Argis watched the battle avidly. His breath stocked when he saw one of the Giants dropping its club, which killed the unlucky soldier that had stood beneath it, and grab another man. It was Lars. The powerful, sinewy arms of the Giant could tear apart a grown man easily. Without thinking Argis knocked an arrow and loosed it. It hit the Giant close to the elbow and it roared in agony, but thankfully it dropped its catch. Lars scrambled beyond its reach and back into the safety of the circle of soldiers. While the soldiers killed the first, now unarmed Giant, a single man attacked the second one.

It was folly. Argis had little doubt who the lone figure was and he saw the exact moment when his Thane made not his first, but certainly his last mistake.

Lars was shouting something, waving his arms like mad.

Argis knocked another arrow; Rolfrik must have run out of his. A good shot might distract the Giant enough for Bjorn to get away. Bjorn had been darting around the creature, but he slipped – and fell. The Giant lifted its club and Argis drew his bow. He never took the shot.

xxxx

Jarl Igmund sighed. The soldier's reports were all the same, then again they were Argis' men and loyal. They would protect their leader at all costs. The short story was that Argis had been ordered not to interfere with his Thane's fight. Whether a housecarl's primary duty was to protect his Thane or to follow his orders was debatable. There had not been enough left of Thane Bjorn to bring back to Markarth and the Hall of the Dead. The soldiers had precious little good to say about the man, some going even as far as to spit on the floor.

"Do you have something to say to defend yourself?" Jarl asked the last question Argis himself.

"No, my Jarl." Argis would not compromise his men and their reports. Neither would he lie and pretend they were true.

With so much evidence in favour of Argis, Jarl Igmund had no choice but to clear Argis' name of all blame and dishonour.

xxxx

His Thane's death had been somewhat of a wakeup call for Argis. The seasons had turned from summer to spring and he had allowed himself to wallow in misery for too long.

It was only thanks to his friends that Argis became known as a man of terrible ill luck, instead of a disgrace to the title of húskarl. His men did not blame him. In his heart though, Argis knew that he had killed his Thane, as sure as if he had driven a blade through the man's chest himself. It troubled him and yet he could not find it in himself to feel any remorse. His life pretty soon returned to its former routine. Except that he stayed off the ale. Funny that a glass of warm honeyed milk would help him sleep much better. It was a secret he never intended for anyone to find out.

One day as he sparred with Lars, Argis felt his spirit lift. He saw his chance soon after, disarming Lars when he let down his guard. It was the first fight Argis had won in a year. He stared at the sword on the floor, not believing that it was not his. And then he began to laugh.

The next round was against Rolfrik. Argis won handily, tricking his friend into believing that his left side was open. Maybe he finally found out how to judge distances or maybe it was the boast to his confidence, but Argis' shield became once more the insuperable barrier he was known and named for.

Rolfrik approached Argis the next day, holding something in his hand. It was a three inch long claw on a leather cord, blunted, polished and set in silver. Rolfrik handed the present over, his only words being "It's good to have you back."

"It's good I have friends like you", Argis replied sincerely. "How about I buy you an ale?"

Rolfrik chuckled and threw his arm across Argis' shoulders. He could feel whatever differences there had been between them mending. "How can I turn down such an offer?"

Together, the two friends made their way towards the Shambling Shed, a pub in the soldier's quarters.

It was not happiness, nor content, but for the first time since the fateful attack on the Forsworn, Argis felt at peace.

* * *

**AN:** I _hate_ tormenting Argis. He tries so hard ;(

Also I'm absolutely terrible with feelings. Writing this chapter was a nightmare; I rewrote it like four times because I could never get it quite right. Well, there it is now: lots of sorrow and repressed anger.

(Did I say that I wanted to write short chapters? Yeah, that didn't quite turn out the way I wanted it to.)

To Sarojz:

I have considered what you wrote in your first review, because that's exactly how I planned for the story to go originally.

Argis was injured, and instead of chapters 7 and 8 I had written a single chapter where the whole business with the Jarl did not happen and Argis was assigned to a Thane who was a complete jerk, who thought his half-blind housecarl was only good for cooking, told Argis to remain behind and got himself and Hákan killed. He was the kind of person everybody would have been glad to see gone.

But I didn't like how it turned out. It just did not feel real, a character who's a hundred percent 'evil' and besides, that would be going too easy on our favourite warrior.

So I decided to split the blame between several fractions and in the end, Bjorn's death was the result of fate, misunderstandings and poor choices made by everyone involved.

I hope you still like it.


	9. Chapter 9

First off, I am sorry it took me so long to update this story. I have in no way abandoned it! As you may already know, I am currently working on its prequel and it's really difficult to stay tuned in with both as the stories 'feel' differently and I want to keep up the quality of my writing. Also, I'm working which leaves little time for writing. But I am trying. I will primarily focus on finishing BtS before I resume with this story and I expect that to be the case within the next three months. But...maybe I will manage a monthly update on HT.

IF you do not already read 'Before the Storm', I suggest that you do. Of course, you don't have to (if you're absolutely not interested in Wulf's exploits before he meets Argis), but it is recommendable, especially since I will pick up with the plot and relationships between characters where I left off. And it will help bridge the time in between new chapters for HT and you'll get to know the pain in the arse that is to be Argis' Thane. =)

Once more, I am very sorry for the delay, I thank you all for reading and I hope you will stay with me throughout this adventure.

* * *

Argis was not one to wallow in the past, it was the past for a reason and that was where he intended to keep it. Today seemed different somehow. His visit to the Jarl early in the morning had brought up memories, some fond, others sad and all of them ones he had believed he had come to terms with a long time ago.

Standing before a tall looking glass Argis carefully studied his reflection. It was a strange thing, to be able to see one's own face. His appearance had not changed much in those four years. His left, marred side was a stark contrast to his right, undamaged one. The Nord of the Reach hated to admit it, but somewhere along the thousand years of war with the Forsworn, their bloodlines had mixed. Lots of people bore features of the Reachmen that were evident to all those who looked closely. With Argis it was his eyes. His right one was a bright, intense amber in colour. It looked back at him, guardedly, from above his tattooed cheek. His tattoo. Hákan had talked Argis into getting the marking, a sign of his prowess for everybody to see. There had been times when the deep red patterns had mocked him, but overall he was fond of it. It was a part of him now.

Turning away, Argis mustered his house. Vlindrel Hall had not changed, either. Nobody had come to claim the abundant furniture and decorations and so Argis was left living in a splendid manor.

Not that he had sat back, put his feet up and enjoyed it. After Bjorn's death Argis had taken on any and every mission there was. For a year he laboured close to breaking down, mentally and physically worn out beyond words. But the hard work had felt cleansing and after a while he let off, allowing himself to enjoy the occasional break, though he remained a driving force behind the campaigns against the Forsworn in the never ending struggle for the Reach.

He had renounced leadership however, leaving it to Brigge, a young and very talented commander. They argued sometimes and Argis, who was the more experienced warrior, had to pull ranks now and then, but more often than not they got along very well, forming a strong team. Brigge got his orders from the Jarl and his main duty was to tend to the army and to take care of the logistics; in other words he organized and coordinated everything.

Argis was left to oversee the training of the recruits, the preparations of his soldiers and he usually did the actual field work. He was content.

Argis had had ambitions, once. He no longer did.

Dreams had brought him little joy and too much sorrow when they were shattered.

Argis looked up when the first rays of sunlight began to stream in through the glass panels in the hall and dining room, casting jittering patters on the plush carpets. Argis had discovered many things about his house over the years. The constant drafts that had made the manor a chilly and uninviting place had stopped when Argis had pulled a lever out of curiosity. As it turned out there were a couple of ventilation grilles that could be opened or closed; a useful mechanism in a place that had only one door and no windows.

Another time, after a very powerful storm Argis saw that there was light shining through the ceiling. Vlindrel Hall was hewn into the mountainside. Its roof was on a rocky outcrop and it was flat and covered in earth and weeds. There, under a thick layer of dirt Argis discovered glass plates. Clear glass of a quality and craftsmanship that was not known to humanity. It was probably a relic of the Dwemer who had built Markarth and had mysteriously disappeared from the surface of Nirn many centuries ago. Argis had gone to great lengths to clean the glass and remove the soil. The flat space that few would call a 'rooftop' he converted into a small herbal garden.

After so much time, Vlindrel Hall had finally become home.

And now a stranger was to come and live here. 'Not just any stranger', Argis thought. His Thane. His _second_ Thane. It was an almost unheard of incident as a housecarl lived and died with the one he was sworn to protect with his own life. It was the only honourable thing to do, the only way for húskarla to ascend to Sovngarde and the Hall of Valor: defend their charges or die trying. They were more than mere warriors; a glorious death on the field of battle was not enough to strive for.

Argis had left his first Thane, Bjorn of Solitude, to die. He had been ordered by the very man not to aid him in his fighting and Argis had abided by these orders. Not out of respect for the man, but out of spite. It made all the difference in the Nord's mind.

The warriors who had accompanied him and most of the other soldiers, some of who were under Argis' command, did not hold him responsible; they understood what it meant to follow orders. Although the Jarl had cleared Argis' name there were others who would not talk to him, shopkeepers that would not sell him their wares and a couple of establishments where he would be a most undesired guest. Argis was not troubled by these circumstances, there were enough who welcomed him and the others had every right not to want to have him around. Over time he had grown indifferent to the various opinions and rumours that went with his name.

Argis' reputation was that of a warrior unmatched in skill and determination, dedicated to his Jarl and the war, and of a severe and unforgiving personality. He was believed to be aloof and of a remorseless nature that bordered on grim, violent though not outright cruel; his path was not one many dared to cross.

Therefore Argis could truly not tell why the Jarl still put his trust in him. He was not worthy of this _fourth_ chance he had been given. He avowed then and there that he would make his Jarl and his Thane proud if it was the last thing he did, as it should be.

He would start by making himself and his home presentable. After weeks of scouting and camping out in the wilds he, his armour and weapons needed some grooming. Argis had a thorough bath and carefully trimmed the beard around his mouth, as he had shaved his cheeks this morning already, because the tufts of hair between his scars looked funny.

Argis cleaned and polished his armour, oiled the leather parts and sharpened his weapons. He carried his dirty clothes – a rather large sack – to the washerwomen for them to deal with it. After all, he had his hands full cleaning Vlindrel Hall, removing the layer of dust that had settled in his absence, beating the carpets and restocking the pantry and ice cellar with victuals. He noted that the snow level was low, he would have to refill the chamber once winter arrived.

He worked quickly and efficiently, as he did everything else.

Midday came and Argis found he had nothing more to do but wait for the man who might decide the further course of his life. The thought made the Nord uneasy. Had he worried as much when he had been younger?

Instead of sitting around and driving himself to distraction Argis decided to pay the Shambling Shed a visit. The tavern was run by Halof, a Great War veteran and it had quickly become a popular establishment, one of the few not in the hands of the Silver-Blood family. The soldiers had their own mess hall, but the food there was so bland and of a seedy origin that many preferred to eat at the Shambling Shed instead. The men put their coin together and bought the groceries themselves and Halof prepared and cooked them, which allowed for cheap, tasty meals.

Argis pushed open the rickety door that hung askew once more, probably due to being unhinged during a brawl. Or maybe Halof had thrown out a drunken troublemaker without bothering to open it first. The landlord greeted Argis with a nod, beckoning for him to take a seat at the counter. The tavern was still empty, but it would fill up soon when the first of the men had their break. Argis followed the invitation and he lowered himself upon a stool, leaning his elbows on the counter. "Give me the strongest drink you've got", he said as a way of greeting.

Halof lifted his brows. Usually he did not sell alcoholic beverages during duty hours, but Argis was not officially a member of the army or the guard. And he looked like he needed it.

The veteran went into the back room and dug around until he found what he was looking for: a bottle of Colovian Brandy that he filled a tankard with. In a smooth motion that spoke of years of practice he slid the tankard across the polished counter without spilling any of the liquid inside. Argis downed the brandy in a few gulps, grimacing slightly at the burn in his throat, but he wordlessly lifted his mug for a refill. Halof complied, waiting patiently and watching his only patron with mild curiosity while and Argis nursed his second drink, quite obviously fortifying himself for something big.

"You look like you just got trampled by a hoarker", the veteran stated wryly "Say, what's the matter?" By now he knew all that troubled his patrons. Halof had listened to so many confessions, he honestly considered charging his customers double: for the drink and the advice that went with it.

"I'm doomed", the blond Nord sighed heavily and indeed he looked to be at a loss, an expression the like of which Halof had not seen on him in...years. And that was not territory he dared to venture in, not unless he wanted to contribute an entire keg to the conversation. The landlord remained silent and let Argis work through things in his own pace.

But the housecarl obviously did not want to talk about whatever it was that had happened, changing the topic instead. "What's the word around town? Anything interesting going on while I was away?"

"Sven broke his hand in training, Dom's wife threw him out on the street again for fornicating and Brigge's in a mood because of fredas", Halof said. "But you already know that", he discarded the last piece of gossip. He was only warming himself up for the good part "And there's going to be a new Thane", the veteran added in a staged voice.

That certainly got Argis' attention who immediately asked "Who's it?" He was hard to read at the best of times, but Halof thought he could detect a tightness in the warrior's voice.

Something was nagging at the back of Halof's mind. He narrowed his eyes and mustered the man in front of him, but his train of thought escaped him. Ah, well, if it was important, it would come back. He only shrugged his shoulders in answer to the housecarl's question and resumed "And there was a man in here, asking about you."

Argis lifted his head at the news that did not sound good at all. As far as he knew there was nobody looking for him. "Who?", he asked, dreading the answer, because the only solution he could think of involved the Thalmor. His only consolation was that none of the soldiers would ever talk to the elves, as it would most likely doom them as well.

But Halof only shrugged, answering "Some stranger I haven't seen 'round before." The veteran's brows furrowed. "Come to think of it, he was quite subtle about it so that I didn't think anything was strange until after he left." He shrugged and lifted his hands when he saw Argis' look of disbelief "I didn't tell him nothing' he couldn't have found out anywhere else", he said, lifting his hands in exasperation. "At least he got the truth here, not the filthy hogwash Kleppr spreads!"

That much was true and Argis knew that Halof meant him no harm. He swirled the last dregs of his drink around in his mug, considering whether he wanted to confide in the landlord, whom he considered to be a friend, when the doors burst open, banging loudly against the wall and a throng of soldiers entered.

First and foremost in the line that formed to the bar was Lars, who cheerfully greeted the housecarl who sat to his right and turned to the landlord, calling out "Ho, Halof, why don't ya get me somethin' to wet me throat?"

"Aren't you sick of drinking your wits away every night?", Halof asked with no small amount of disgust.

"I get sick sometimes", Lars confirmed and with a big smile he continued "But then I drink some more to make it go away!"

Halof shook his head, grabbed a mug from under the counter and filled it up, shouting for his assistant to begin dishing out today's meal. He couldn't exactly refuse a Nord his drink or he'd be out of business before he could say 'mead'.

In the meantime Lars grinned up at Argis, blinked and did a double take, his customary smile disappearing slowly to be replaced with a worried frown. His friend looked miserable not at all like the composed, stalwart warrior he usually was as he dejectedly stared into his mug, like he was expecting to find an answer to his problems inside.

"Hey, Argis", Lars began cautiously "What's wrong? "Ya look like ya got fucked with the wrong end of a sword."

The blunt statement made Argis laugh out loud, but it was not an amused sound. Though crude, it described pretty well how he was feeling right now. He was saved from answering when Halof's assistant appeared from the kitchens and put the first plate in front of Argis, who immediately began to eat, though the normally good meal tasted like ashes to him today.

Lars obviously got the message and let him be, striking up a conversation with Halof instead. Getting Argis to do something when he did not want to was like working with a particularly intractable mule. You had to dangle a carrot in front of him, not kick as that would only make him dig his heels in all the harder. It wasn't the best comparison maybe, but it fit.

With a start the housecarl suddenly realized what it was that his friend and the landlord were talking about as a snippet reached his ears.

"...the Jarl's just declared it", Lars said, waving around a piece of parchment in evident excitement.

Argis leaned over and snatched it from his hands, wincing as a twinge of pain shot through his damaged arm when he twisted it the wrong way. He stared at the placard and the face that was depicted upon it. There were similar ones for wanted criminals, but this one was to notify the citizenry of a new Thane so that all could recognize him; in the streets the couriers probably cried the news so that all would know. 'Wulfryk, Thane of Markarth and the Reach', the big bold letters said. Argis felt lightheaded as all blood drained from his face. Up until now he had hoped that the Jarl had played just a cruel trick on him, but there was no more room for such fantasies now. "Where did you get this?", he asked hoarsely.

"They're all 'round the city", Lars answered and turned back to Halof again to pick up where they had left off. "Nobody's ever seen him before...I'm wondering..."

"You're still wondering about what happened to your sweets", Halof rudely interrupted him.

"They're disappeared", Lars cried. "It's a mystery!"

The truth was that Argis, Ralof and Thurek had gotten drunk one evening when Lars was on patrol and they had done the unthinkable: eaten another Nord's sweetrolls. Argis very much doubted that nobody had seen them, the soldiers probably were all afraid to accuse their commander and his closest friends for being the culprits. At any rate, watching Lars fumble in the dark was outright hilarious. Argis would have to make it up to the man for providing such a splendid source of amusement.

He would visit the bakery tomorrow, he decided, putting down the piece of parchment. There was nothing he could do about it now, anyways. On the morrow the entire city would know.

Halof caught a glimpse of the drawing and gaped. "That's the man who came by, the one I told you 'bout", he exclaimed in surprise, addressing Argis.

"What's he doin' in here?", Lars muttered. A Thane in the 'Shed? Halof must've savoured too much of his own mead.

"Asking about Argis", Halof said slowly and the housecarl could almost see the wheels turning in his head like in one of those ancient Dwemer machines that were exhibited in the Understone Keep. The veteran looked up and his eyes met Argis' and the warrior saw the understanding dawn in them. So Halof had figured it out already. They both completely ignored it when the doors were slammed open once more and another group of soldiers marched in.

"Is it true?", the veteran enquired in a hushed voice, looking around to make sure that nobody listened in and leaning across the counter.

"Is what true?", Lars asked distractedly, looking around for his other friends amidst the new arrivals and waving his arm when he spotted one "Oi, Rolf, over here!"

"Yeah", Argis sighed.

"Is what true?", Lars threw in again, turning back once more. "Argis? Is what true?"

It wasn't the housecarl that answered though, but Halof who silently explained "Argis got assigned a Thane, Lars."

"Oh", the soldier's eyes grew as wide as the plate he was eating from. "Oh." He looked from one man to the other, not sure whether they were not trying to trick him like they sometimes liked to do. Their dead serious expressions convinced him that it really was true. Well, that was some material for juicy gossip. At once Lars jumped up, turned around and, standing on tiptoe so he could look over the crowd, he yelled "Rolfrik! Hey Rolf!", Lars, bellowed enough for everyone to hear. "Guess what! Argis got a new Thane!"

There went Argis' hopes at keeping things quiet. He cast his friend a filthy glare and grumbled "Thank you for keeping your yapping hole shut." In the sudden silence that followed Lars' declaration his words rang out loudly.

"Hey, if you wanted to keep it a secret, you shouldn't have told me", Lars shot back, unfazed.

"_I_ didn't"; Argis muttered, but his voice was drowned out by the clamour that ensued.

Within seconds Argis found himself surrounded by a circle of curious spectators, all of them pestering him with questions and looking at him expectantly.

"No, I don't know what he's like", the blond warrior shouted in answer to some of the enquiries "And I don't know where he came from", and "Dammit, it wasn't me cooling my heels in the city!" They wouldn't leave him be and he finally barked at them in annoyance "What are you gawking at, you bloody clods? Go away and get back to your drinking or I'll have you working double shifts!"

"On your orders", somebody shouted and another voice added "Anybody wish he'd say that more often?" and a wave of laughter followed. Slowly the crowd dispersed again, the soldiers either congratulating Argis or voicing their sympathies. Apparently they could not make up their minds whether they should be happy for the housecarl or as upset as he himself felt.

Only two remained: Lars and Rolf who had fought his way through the crowd with the help of his elbows. "When's he to arrive?", Argis' second-in-command asked the warrior.

"After court", Argis replied. That meant five at the earliest. He still had hours to kill.

"We can help you get drunk to make you less nervous", Lars offered helpfully.

"Oh, yes, that will make for a very good first impression, muttonhead", Rolf stated wryly and tangled his fingers in Lars' short, red hair, before yanking him backwards off the stool and taking the seat for himself.

Lars picked himself up in record time and appeared at Argis' right side. "Bit late for that, don't you think", he shot back and looking round he simply pulled the seat from under the man next to him. It was a good way to start a brawl and when the soldier climbed to his feet again and lifted his fists, cursing like an old sailor, Lars used the stool whack him upside the head and knocked him clean out. His friends dragged the unconscious man off and nobody else battered an eyelash. The Shambling Shed was not one of those fancy places where one had to show manners. It was loud, rowdy and full with fighting men out to have a good time.

"Come on, Argis", Rolf tried to cheer up the warrior "This is what you were meant to do. You'll be fine!"

Argis snorted. "Sure, I only got my last Thane killed. No problem, I'll just get another one. Lately they sprout in Markarth like mushrooms", he muttered dismally.

"Yeah", Lars threw in readily "But ya get better with practice, as they say."

"Gods", Argis choked out. He honestly no longer knew whether he felt like crying or laughing. Both, probably. His friends kept drinking and they did make a marvellous job of distracting him. Some time later they began to analyse his good and bad attributes. The amount of mead they consumed however, soon had the talk spinning into the ridiculous.

"You're the best fighter in all the Reach", Rolf counted out for the fourth time.

"Ya can be a bossy arse, though", Lars countered and tried to clap the housecarl on the shoulder in consolation, missed and hit himself instead, adding "Yar still me bestest friend though."

"And you're all scar...scary...scarry and", Rolf's finger hovered unsteadily in front of Argis' face for a moment and poked him in the chin, before the blond warrior slapped his hand away. "And you've got a t...tat...tatoo", the archer stammered out and grinned like it was all the explanation Argis would ever need.

"Well, ya ain't no virgin though and that's a minus", Lars called out, giggling like a madman.

Rolf seemed perplexed at the sudden change. "What's that got to do with anything? It's not like he's goin' to be naked.

"Ya could, Argis, ya'r kinda hot", Lars said to the housecarl and hurriedly added "for a man."

Rolf just stared at the redhead, shaking his head slowly enough that his vision did not spin. The man should be gagged.

"What?", Lars shouted when he saw the look Rolf gave him. "I'd totally do him if he were a gal. Or if I was into the other thing", he mused.

Halof listened in on Lars and Ralof debate Argis' virtues and after disappearing shortly he returned with a full tankard that he handed the blond warrior, who had buried his head in his hands, probably trying to block out the slurred voices of his friends, who still argued back and forth.

"Drink's on the house."

Argis left the tavern shortly after, but first he charged Halof with keeping a close eye on his friends to prevent them from doing something stupid, like showing up at his doorstep later. The last thing Argis needed was for Lars to vomit on the man who was to become his Thane. Halof promised he would keep the drink flowing and by the time the two of them drank their way through the tab Argis paid for, they wouldn't be going anywhere.

Arriving in Vlindrel Hall Argis first lit a fire and seated himself in a comfortable chair next to the fireplace. It was a strategic location; he would see his Thane, before the other man saw him. An advantage like this was often crucial in a fight. He was telling himself that he was preparing to meet his Thane, not going into battle. Not that it helped. He'd rather _be_ in a battle.

Argis nibbled on a piece of bread, more because he needed something to do, than because he was hungry. And sharpening his sword might send the wrong message, if it was the first thing his Thane would see after he walked in. He kept glancing at the door every few seconds and his foot bounced up and down restlessly in a show of nerves that he would never allow himself when he was with his men.

Suddenly, there was the scrape of a key in the lock. Argis went stock-still; he put away his food and dusted his hands of the crumbs, his composure perfectly calm once more.

It was the calm that came before the storm.

'This is it', he thought. His future life hinged on the next minutes. That might be putting it a bit dramatic, but it was true nonetheless. Everything was in order. Now it was only up to Argis to make a good impression.

The massive doors to Vlindrel Hall swung open and Argis saw the silhouette of a big man block out the light.

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**AN:** I wanted to have Wulf in this chapter, I really really did, dammit! But the words...they just keep coming...


	10. Chapter 10

I have found a solution to my problem, here's the deal: this is not the final version of this chapter; I'll post that one after I've finished BtS. So if parts (especially at the beginning) feel a bit incomplete it's because I left out the spoilers for the ending of BtS. Once I've completed the other story, this chapter will pick it up where I left off.

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Wulfryk looked around from where he was standing on the top of the stairs that led to his new home, Vlindrel Hall. He was breathing heavily from carrying his gear up all those flights of stairs, but the view over Markarth alone was worth it. He was not at the highest point of the city, that would be the temple of Dibella, but like all the fine manors it was in the upper district, away from the clamour of the market and the smithies, the poverty of the warrens and the smoke that coiled thickly from the silver smelters.

Wulf had acquired the Hall yestereve, when Jarl Igmund had proclaimed him Thane of the Reach. Another title and more duties he neither needed nor wanted. There already was a weight to his name that Wulf wholeheartedly wished away, but to no avail, as the gods had once more made him the butt end of one of their jokes.

After what had happened he had shaken off the responsibility, cut his ties with both friends and the Companions, with the Jarl and with Whiterun. It was better this way. They would be better off for the lack of his company, even if not all agreed with him.

Only, Wulf had ended getting caught in the very same net once again and though he had seen the pattern, there had been nothing he could have done about escaping it. He had proven himself a capable warrior and done the Jarl a favour and thus he had been gifted the title of Thane. Things had proceeded almost too fast for him to comprehend, until he found himself shaking Jarl Igmund's hand, smiling an entirely fake smile and nodding his head whilst inwardly he wanted to scream in frustration. Wulf's only consolation was that here, far away from the Whiterun Hold he was just a stranger. A powerful one, thanks to his new position, but a stranger nonetheless.

Nobody knew about his heritage that some superstitious fools called destiny, about him being a Companion and the slayer of a dragon, a reluctant hero that none would hail were they to know about his true nature. Because Wulfryk had secrets, ones that he preferred to keep in the dark, far from the light of prying eyes and the possibility of being overheard by curious ears.

Markarth had been as far as he could have run without outright leaving Skyrim and he was not ashamed to admit, that run he did. At least to himself. Nobody else needed to know and, best of all, nobody did.

Maybe having the title of Thane would not be so bad, after all. He had needed a house that would suit his position and Wulf had coin aplenty and no desire to keep it. So now here he was, staring at the metal doors and wondering what lay behind them. A better future, hopefully.

Although the probability was higher it would just be a dusty anteroom. Oh well, one should take what one could get. Even if it came with spiders. Farkas probably wouldn't agree, but the big warrior wasn't here. Wulf felt grief and guilt wash over him. He sorely missed his friend; things had never been the same again since their accursed trip to Dustman's Cairn. Since the Silver Hand had... – with a start Wulf realized he had been doing it again; wallowing in the past.

He couldn't change the events that had gone before and wishing things had never happened would not make them undone. Wulf felt his mood soured by his little memory trip and kicked open the door to his new home, partially to blow off steam and because he had his hands full towing in his pack and personal effects.

Once inside, he looked around curiously, distracted by the interior. He had feared that if Vlindrel Hall was anything like the palace, he would be living in a boiling tea kettle. But everything was quiet, there was no rubble lying strewn around, no mechanical clamour, no pipes from which steam escaped with a high-pitched whistle and – thank the divines for it – no Dwemer sculptures made from scraps of junk metal. Whoever had been tasked with the interior decoration of the palace should be banned from his occupation for a lifetime.

However, Wulf found himself standing on a thick carpet and looking up at the ceiling, through which light filtered to illuminate the corridor and the plants that grew in huge pots. It looked welcoming, so he made to enter the living room. He didn't make it far.

"Boots off!", a deep voice suddenly barked, making Wulf jump a foot in the air and drop what he was carrying.

Wulfryk's hand closed around the hilt of his sword before he even registered the action, his eyes roving across the room and setting on a place deep in the shadows, behind fireplace. He couldn't see the speaker, but the man sure sounded like he meant business and Wulf obediently towed his shoes off. No need to piss off his amiable host, whoever the guy was.

There was the creak of a chair and a figure detached itself from the dark corner. The other man stepped forward, into the light of the fire and Wulf could see he looked maybe a bit embarrassed and, almost shyly, he said in a hoarse voice "My Thane...welcome to Vlindrel Hall."

Oh. So that's who he was. Of course, the Jarl had told him he would have a housecarl, only Wulf's brain hadn't made the connection yet. He realized he was still gripping his sword and let go abruptly, thinking of something he could say in return.

Only he was distracted by the way the warrior's upper arm strained against his shirtsleeve when he raised his hand to scratch at his neck in obvious discomfort.

Wulfryk quite openly seized up the hunk of a Nord that had been assigned as his húskarl. He had to give the man credit for not fidgeting under his unblinking stare, but then Argis was a beast of a man, Wulf thought, not only for his ferocious looking scars, but his physique alone. And that was coming from somebody, who had spent the past two years with the Companions, Skyrim's most fabled warriors. Argis might not be as tall as either of the twins, but he could easily keep up with Farkas when it came to breadth of shoulders and chest.

At six feet height and two hundred pounds, Wulf by no means of reckoning on Tamriel could be called a small man. Argis was both taller and he must have had forty pounds on Wulfryk. _At least._ Well, there was nothing like a trip to his homeland to make Wulf feel like the runt of the litter.

Argis berated himself for the umpteenth time for the way he had reacted. This wasn't one of the soldiers he could order around. He only hoped he hadn't scared the poor sod out of his mind.

The guy was still staring at him like he had never seen another human being before and quite frankly, it made Argis uncomfortable. For some reason he felt like a bloody steak presented to a wolf, the way his Thane's piercing blue eyes were drilling into him.

He took the time to muster the man in turn. He had a muscular build, obviously a fighter by the way he carried himself and by how quickly he had reacted when Argis had spoken up. That was all that mattered, although Argis noticed other things as well, like his handsome Nord features, unusually dark skin, black hair and short, but thick beard that was trimmed close to his Thane's jaw line.

As if a spell was broken, the man suddenly broke into a wide smile. It seemed Argis had passed the inspection. The corner of one of his front teeth was chipped, giving his Thane's smile a crooked, but somewhat endearing appearance.

"I'm Wulf", he said, extending his hand. "And you must be Argis. I have heard the stories", he added with a wink.

Of course he had heard them. The man had been snooping around, after all. Still, Argis took the offered hand, pleased to find the palm calloused and the grip strong.

"That's me", Argis replied. 'And the first time I've heard anything about _you_ was this very morning' he thought and said "It is an honour to meet you, Thane."

Unknowing to him, Wulfryk had heard those words before, but the Thane only reacted with a twitch of his lips, before he turned to survey the living room, humming in appreciation.

"Did you furnish the place?", he asked, curiosity mixing with a note of wonder in his voice.

"No, the man who lived here before", Argis answered curtly. It was almost true.

Wulfryk tilted his head to the side, as if his housecarl's answer presented a riddle that needed to be solved. "But you live here, right?", he enquired further. The Jarl had mentioned something like that, only Wulf hadn't been paying much attention.

He knew he had hit a sore spot when Argis visibly bristled. "It's my house, too", the blond warrior replied as if daring him to say otherwise.

Wulf wasn't suicidal enough to argue; besides he had no problem with the two of them sharing the mansion, unless Argis made a habit of jumping him from dark corners. After the dormitory in Jorrvaskr having his own room was almost a novel experience.

Argis watched the Thane slowly walk around the room and take everything in before the man came to a stop in front of the main fireplace and shot a meaningful glance at the cooking utensils that hung suspended above it "I see you like to cook."

Argis shrugged. "Not really. I like to eat well, though. Which makes cooking a necessity." If his Thane thought he'd be his cook or personal servant or something, he'd better think again. Else, Argis would make him.

"That's good." Wulfryk nodded his approval. "I can hunt but I can't cook worth shite. I'm pretty good with the bottle opener, though", he admitted, casting Argis a sheepish smile over his shoulder.

Despite himself, Argis felt the corner of his mouth twitch upwards. The guy seemed to be all right. And preparing a meal for two wouldn't be any more of a bother than it was for one. Maybe they would get along, despite his worst fears. For all the talk Argis had heard about the Thane, the man seemed to be fairly easygoing.

Right now he picked up the trunk he had dropped in the corridor and after hefting it up with a grunt he straightened and looked at Argis with expectation. At first the housecarl did not know what he was supposed to do or say, until he realized that his Thane probably wanted to unburden himself from all that he was carrying as well as his pack, which he had yet to put down.

Argis pointed further inside the house and said "Your room's at the left side, Thane." He bent to pick up a few fallen items, placed them on the table and followed the other man, leaning against the doorframe to his Thane's room with his arms crossed.

He was sworn to serve the man; he might as well put some effort into befriending him, as that would undoubtedly make his job more pleasant and a great deal easier. Besides, his Thane looked a bit lost as he stood in the middle of the bedroom, staring at the bed.

When he noticed Argis watching him, Wulfryk explained "I'm thinking about where to put things."

"There's lots of free space", Argis commented, pointing with his chin at the empty dressers.

"That's the problem." Wulf surveyed the small heap on his bed that was all of his meagre possessions.

With a pang Argis realized what it was, that his Thane was saying. The bundle of clothes, pots, and souvenirs was all he had. Out of the two of them it had been Argis living in the lap of luxury.

"Eh, scratch that", Wulfryk suddenly huffed and put his trunk into the bigger chest at the foot of the bed. He scooped up the loose items, placing them on a shelf and tossed his pack and clothes messily into the wardrobe. Only a thick leather-bound book was carefully placed on top of the nightstand. Argis' Thane dusted off his hands like he had completed some great achievement, turned to Argus and asked "So, is there someplace we could go for a drink?" Before Argis could answer he added "It's on me."

Now, that was a decent thing to do. Argis wasn't about to turn down the offer. "Just let me get my things", he grunted before he disappeared into his own room for a moment.

When he came back out he had a longseax slung over his shoulder and in his left hand he carried a large, painted shield. It depicted a stone wall with a city gate that bore striking resemblance to Markarth's own gates.

'The Bulwark', indeed, Wulf thought. Argis carried his armour with surprising ease, almost as if the steel weighted nothing at all. Wulf knew a dangerous man when he saw one; Argis set off every warning bell in his mind. There was no reason why the housecarl should wish him any harm, though so he left behind his skyforge steel sword, but he did take his fighting knife with him, just in case. He doubted he would need anything else. Wulf was a dangerous man, too.

He walked besides Argis as the housecarl led them through several winding alleyways that Wulf had not yet set foot in. In the dark he was lost after the fifth turn, but Argis' sure stride convinced him of the fact that the housecarl knew where he was going. To strike up a conversation, Wulf asked "You've been living in Markarth for long?"

"Almost two decades, Thane", Argis replied.

Wulf could not imagine what it was like, to spend one's entire life in one place, but he knew that this was the rule for most people and that his own lifestyle was the exception. He wondered where Argis had grown up, because the man was older, probably by another ten years or so, but the question felt too personal for Wulf to ask.

A short while later, Argis spoke up once more "Here we are."

Wulf looked up at the building in front of them and the green letters above it that read 'The Jolly Giant'. The wooden sign showed a drunk giant dancing around a fire. Wulf snorted. He had seen a few of the creatures and their herds of mammoth, but they never stroke him as particularly jovial.

But despite the unremarkable exterior the tavern was welcoming on the inside, brightly lit by many candles and warm due to the fires roaring in two fireplaces. They took a small table in a comfortable nook at the back of the room. The benches had cushions that were covered by cloth woven from many colours, making the room look cozy and inviting and sitting decidedly more comfortable. The candle had tilted a bit and wax dribbled onto the table where it congealed. Wulf scratched at it, because it gave him something to do with his hands.

Thankfully, it did not take long for an elderly serving woman to arrive at their table. Apparently she and the housecarl knew each other well, because she greeted him warmly and by his name.

"Good to see you Argis, dear. It's been some time since I've seen you here. Been drinking at the 'Shed lately?", she then scolded, casting him a sharp look.

With a sigh she patted his hand to show she wasn't really angry at him and Wulf saw Argis smile warmly up at her. "Hello, Agata. You know I can't bring the boys here, you forbid me to do so myself."

"Damn right I did!", she exclaimed with no small amount of self-righteousness. "But your friend is welcome here, he looks to be of the decent sort", she said more to Wulf, who watched the entire exchange with a great deal of amusement.

"It will be the usual, yes?", she asked Argis, who was left feeling uncomfortable at her last words, but refused to show it, and without waiting for his answer she turned to Wulf "And you, dear?"

Wulf chose a dark root ale and the woman left to bring their orders. To avoid an awkward silence from setting in he opted for another question "So, have you been a housecarl long?"

"Nearly six years. I was in training before and in the army before that."

"It must be very strange, having somebody move in so suddenly", Wulf prompted.

Argis was not sure whether this was meant as a weird sort of apology or as a test. He doubted it was the latter, Wulfryk did not strike him to be of the underhanded sort, but out of caution he replied formally "It's an honour to serve you, Thane."

Although, thus far, Argis had found out that he preferred his position as a housecarl when there was no Thane attached to it.

Wulfryk looked up and his Thane's blue eyes met Argis' amber one. "You'll choke on those words one day, Sunshine." The grin Argis got was outright predatory.

'Sunshine'? Argis' heartbeat picked up. Something told him the man was trouble. And, for better or worse their fates were now intertwined.

It was a relief when Agata arrived and put down two mugs in front of them as well as a huge pan of spicy potato slices and a bowl of sour cream to dip them in.

"It's on the house", the serving woman said with a wink and scurried off again.

"I see you come here often", Wulf asked Argis when she was out of earshot.

"I used to", the housecarl replied with a shrug and reached for a potato chip, despite them being hot from the oven.

Wulf dipped in as well and cursed vulgarly when he burned his fingers. He shook his hand and sucked on the hurt digit.

"Careful, Thane, they are hot", Argis warned him in a flat tone, although with barely conceiled amusement.

Wulf shot him a dark glare and snapped "Thank you, serah obvious."

"You're welcome, serah oblivious."

There was a sudden silence as Argis realized what he had said and to _whom_. For a moment he almost had believed he had been trading banter with one of his friends. Now, he found himself cursing inwardly at his lapse.

His Thane sniffed with affront, levelled his potato accusingly at Argis' face and in a silent voice he muttered. "Fine. You win this round."

Argis blinked, stunned. He saw Wulfryk's lips quirk in an attempt to hide his smile. His Thane wasn't angry?

The other man let his mask fall away, crunched on his food and promised "I'll get you next time."

A challenge, if Argis had ever heard one. Apparently his Thane did not know that Argis never backed away from a challenge.

"So, what's with the no shoes rule?" Wulf abruptly changed the course of their conversation.

Argis grunted, talking a gulp of ale from his foaming tankard. Somehow he knew he would never hear the end of it if. "Do you know how much work it is to clean the carpets?", he enquired.

"Ummm, no?" Wulf had never owned a carpet. He certainly had never cleaned one.

"I propose a deal, Thane." Argis leaned over the table. "If you make sure to clean them afterwards, you get to keep on the boots."

For reasons unknown Wulfryk thought accepting the offer was a really bad idea. "No, thank you", he refused. When Argis chuckled, Wulf knew for certain he had made the right choice.

The blond warrior warmed up to him a bit after Wulf put his charm to work. Argis didn't dislike him, but he was suspicious by nature and it took a while until he began to ask questions of his own. An hour later found them with their old drinks, but a new pan, engrossed in conversation.

His housecarl's gruff nature and coarse manners didn't bother Wulf in the least. He had spent his life amongst fighting men, a lot of them being of the unsavoury sort. Argis wasn't like that, Wulf could tell. The man had a code of honour that he stuck to and a duty he took seriously. In many ways he resembled the Companions. Wulf wondered whether throwing a sweetroll at someone in Markarth was as sure a sign of fondness as it had been in Jorrvaskr. It certainly would be hilarious to find out.

Argis felt himself relaxing. Experience told him he shouldn't be letting down his guard, but in his gut he knew he could trust this man. At least a little bit. Argis felt a smile pull at his mouth. This wasn't like it had been with Bjorn at all. It was more like catching up to an old friend whom he had not seen in a long time. Maybe the Gods listened to his prayers, after all.

xxxx

That night Argis awoke abruptly to a loud crash and cursing. Somebody was in his house. That was one thief who had picked the wrong house. Before he was fully awake, Argis grabbed his sword that leaned against the wall next to his bed and he charged out of his room, ready to confront the intruder.

He almost stumbled across the man who lay sprawled on the floor, hopelessly tangled in a chair. He was only wearing pants and, when he saw Argis storm out of his room with a bellow, he looked panicked for one moment.

"What is the..." Argis did not get much farther, before it dawned on him that this man was his Thane, as of yesterday. He suddenly felt slightly embarrassed, not because he was stark naked, but because he still held his sword at guard. He lowered the tip, letting it sink to the floor between his feet and surveyed the scene, though he could not discern much in the near total darkness, now that the fire had burned low.

Wulf blinked. He had a nice, if upside-down view of Arigs' privies. He would have whistled, only he didn't fancy being skewered for it. Instead, he settled for flattery. "Ah, my faithful housecarl arrives in my time of need."

"Thane!?"

"I was set upon by this dastardly piece of mahogany furniture in a most vicious way."

"What?"

Damn it, wasn't it evident? "I lost the fight with the chair", Wulf whined pitifully.

Argis stared at him for a moment longer and, without comment he shouldered his sword, turned around and marched back into his room, muttering something Wulf did not catch, the tone of which he knew well though.

If Wulf was going to trip over his feet and make a fool of himself, he'd rather do it sooner than later. Gods forbid, people might take him seriously otherwise. Another memorable performance by Wulfryk Blacktyde. He cursed when trying to wriggle out from under the back rest caused his leg to twist in the wrong way.

Thanks to his Thane's nightly escapade, Argis had some trouble falling asleep again and in the morning he slept longer than usual. When he awoke it was to vivid cursing. Argis had a strange sense of having lived through this once already, a few hours ago. He listened to the profanities and thought that his mother would have threatened to wash his Thane's mouth with soap; for a man of such good looks, he certainly could spew some filth.

"...damn to Oblivion the shitheaded, sodding son of a snowtroll who first thought of them bloody stone beds", closely followed by more unhappy mutters "Of all the surfaces one could sleep on, how did a stone slab win?!"

Argis winced in sympathy, it looked like asking his Thane whether he had had a good night was an excess in futility. When he entered the dining room, he saw Wulfryk massaging his back with one hand and picking at his food with a fork with the other. There was a pan with scrambled eggs and a few slices of bread on the table as well as dishes for two. It wasn't the right pan, but Argis was willing to give his Thane credit for trying. Having another man in his house wasn't comfortable, but it wasn't entirely unpleasant either.

"We should invent a new house rule, besides the no-shoes-thing", Wulfryk greeted him when Argis sat down next to him.

"What would that rule be, Thane?"

"Banishment of clothes", Wulfryk stated confidently.

"Dream on. I won't fight off your enemies in nothing but my dignity", Argis grunted. He refrained from mentioning that there had been no need for clothes when he had been living alone.

"You did yesterday", Wulf pointed out.

"What was that, if I may ask, Thane?"

"I wanted to go to the bathroom and I tripped", Wulf hastily explained. He had forgotten the single step in front of his room, slipped on the marble floor and crashed into the table with enough force for him to roll down on the other side. All because there was a bathroom. A huge one with the freaking biggest bathtub set in the stone floor that Wulf had ever seen. Argis had given him the tour of the house yesterday, when they had returned from the tavern.

His housecarl chose not to comment further. Instead he asked "Do you have any orders, Thane?"

Wulf nodded. Indeed he did. "Go, buy me a bed."

Argis forewent chewing in favour of staring at the man sitting opposite him. "What?"

"It's not that difficult a task", Wulf said, furrowing his brows. "Buy a bed", he repeated. "A big one. With four posts. And with canopies. And a lovely mattress, but make sure it's not too soft. It shouldn't be too hard, either." That about covered it. "Oh, don't forget the bedding."

"Anything else?", Argis sighed.

His question might have been rhetoric, but Wulfryk cheerfully answered "No, that about covers it." After a moment of thought he addressed Argis once more. "How can you stand it?"

"What?", Argis asked absent-mindedly, as he was pondering where he would get a bed from for his Thane. Markarth was a city of stonemasons, not carpenters. He didn't see his Thane narrow his eyes at him in suspicion.

"Sleeping on stone, Sunshine." When Argis only fidgeted with the tablecloth and failed to answer, the truth downed on Wulf. "Wait! Do you have a bed?", he suddenly burst out.

"Of course I have a bed", Argis replied gruffly. He hadn't commented on Markarth's stone beds, else he would have been honour-bound to offer his Thane his own bed. Only, no fucking way was Argis going to sleep on a cold, hard slab of stone. He wasn't crazy like that and he wasn't young anymore. His Thane didn't exactly look happy with the revelation. Argis couldn't blame him.

"Are you sure you don't want to come to make a choice?", he asked his Thane without much hope, but in attempt to be nice.

Wulfryk shook his head in negation as soon as the housecarl had begun to speak. "No, I need to meet with the Jarl. Speaking of which, what time is it?"

"Half past seven", Argis guessed. He usually was right about it too.

His Thane visibly blanched. "Then I should have been there half an hour ago." He jumped got up and jogged to his room in order to dress more formally, leaving Argis to clean up after breakfast.

A very short time later Wulfryk was about to leave when Argis' deep voice made him stop mid-step.

Wulf honestly couldn't tell if the man was being serious or making fun of him when he said "Have fun at court."

His Thane turned around to grin at Argis before retorting "Have fun lugging the furniture up all those stairs."

He got him there. Argis sighed. It would be a long day for them both, by the looks of it.

* * *

**AN:** Our hero, our hero claims a clumsy heart. Beware, beware the dragonborn comes...stumbling along...

And Argis...you're charm in person


End file.
